STAR TREK: THE NEXT GENERATION -- THE SCIENTISTS' DAUGHTER
by FishForeverLovesCA
Summary: When the stakes are of the highest order, everything Jean-Luc Picard has ever known comes into play, love, loyalty, betrayal, morality, duty. The needs of the many turn on the forbidden passions of the one man who as Captain of the Enterprise in the Federation's most crucial moments is tested to the limits.
1. PART ONE, Prologue

Author's Note: This is the third time I've tried posting this work to this site, some of you may remember reading this material before. Apologies to all who previously favorited the story, or sent me a review and got no response, I will do my best this time to follow up. The problem I had last time was that apparently I can not add asterisks to the story, so have had to insert them in brackets, if anyone has a solution for this, I would love to hear it. Also I did take note of the suggestions for changes, but so as to avoid reader confusion, am posting the original non-revised version. Novel length story.

Setting: Originally written during the second or third season of ST:TNG, updated after 9/11. There may be some story and technical issues, and this also doesn't reflect any of the later book and movie material. However, this story is less about the body than it is about the heart, and even more, the spirit of the Trek universe, the experience, the journey. Because that is what I think Star Trek is, ultimately, a journey.

Disclaimer: I do not own anything related to Star Trek.

Star Trek: The Next Generation

The Scientists' Daughter

Prologue

When Dr. T'Prianne Rhaenn delivered the last material to her contact, she knew that her temporal life was over. Soon, her betrayal would become clear, and sometime after that she would die, killed by those whom she had helped for so many years, and whom she well knew would not tolerate such treachery. T'Prianne understood this; to a Vulcan, it was logical. She expected to die. In fact, she was counting on it. Her death was only a step, but a necessary one, triggering the event cascade needed to achieve the greater purpose she had worked toward for so long.

In the months preceding her betrayal, T'Prianne had _felt_ an increasing joy in the hearts of the people she had worked for; victory was theirs at long last, a victory gained in great measure through the information she and her husband had secretly provided. And she could also _feel_ the impatience, running like a dark fever, in those who backed their side, and who were waiting for their opportunity to strike.

This was what had caused her to act. A crisis had to be brought about, now, when it was least expected, and while all the parties were off-guard, now, while it was still possible to destabilize the situation. It would be a crushing setback for the people she and her husband had aided for years; unfortunate, but integral to her larger purpose. She needed to buy time for the real actors to finish their work. The future of the Federation depended on it.

When they returned to Selasdana a few days later, her husband immediately bundled up their daughter and sent her off to Vulcan; Anna would be protected there, and her safety was paramount: The child's destiny was hurtling toward her now, would open and catch her and set her on her future path in the same moments as her parents' death. Once their daughter was safely on her way, T'Prianne and her husband settled back into their work, and waited for the inevitable.

The weeks went by, and turned into months. T'Prianne watched as her betrayal reaped its devastating harvest. And, as she had planned, her perfidy was discovered, and now those she had betrayed, intent on revenge, had come and were hovering over her home like avenging angels, watching and waiting. But they did not attack.

T'Prianne re-evaluated the situation. She explained to her husband that she _felt_ the killers, in their need to punish and destroy, were waiting for their daughter to return home to Selasdana, waiting patiently, in order to kill, not just T'Prianne, but her entire family. This, too, was logical: Her betrayal had cost the people she had worked for very dearly, and they wanted her to pay as dearly.

As a Vulcan, T'Prianne could accept that she had to die, and that many others would die with her. If she had calculated correctly, many billions of others would be saved by her death. And if she didn't act to head off events, the result would be a cataclysmic war, death and disorder and ruin, a devastating conflict that would last for hundreds, perhaps thousands, of years. The small, controlled action she was playing a part in bringing about now would forestall that other, darker, fate.

Her husband was half-human, however, an emotional man, when he wasn't being scientifically rational. He had questioned her very closely about her plan before, and now his questions renewed, with a greater intensity of feeling: Wasn't there some other way? Did so many have to die? What about their child? How would they save her? Could Anna be saved?

She considered this question. There was a second option, a plan of action which might now be set into motion, a way to precipitate the needed crisis, and at the same time, possibly save their daughter. This strategy would require exquisite timing; and there was a chance the child couldn't be saved. Her plan was a calculated risk, but with a high probability of success.

She discussed all of this with her husband. Afterwards, he appeared resigned, said only that their daughter was young for such a step. Still, if the child's life could be spared in this way, then ...

T'Prianne Rhaenn sent a message along through her contact: No further delays. The time for the _Enterprise_ to visit their Outpost had arrived. Shortly thereafter, she received the affirmative reply she was expecting. Everything was now in place. One way or another, the Federation would have no choice but to act.

Knowing that their daughter would be saved, her husband was a little easier about their own fate, although T'Prianne often _felt_ flashes of sorrow and regret in his heart over the impending loss of her corporeal being. Regret was a particularly human emotion, and of all the human emotions, the one she understood least; regret was truly illogical, a waste of time and energy.

As for T'Prianne herself, her Vulcan logic had long ago overridden every other consideration. The truth for her was a burnished beacon, shining and clear, and it never changed: The needs of the many outweighed the needs of the few.

[***]

"Computer."

The computer obediently chirruped. Captain Jean-Luc Picard, U.S.S. _Enterprise_, leaned forward, looking into the viewing screen on his desk.

"Captain's Log: The _Enterprise_ has arrived at Outpost Selasdana in the Corridor; it is evening here. We will conduct our official visit in the morning. From Selasdana, we will proceed to Outpost Verdana, and so on, until we've completed our tour of the Corridor, as ordered. Computer, close log."

The computer chirped its compliance.

He stared at the empty screen; openly conscious, suddenly, of his reflection there. The deep lines cutting around his nose down to his set mouth and chin, the straight-gazing eyes, the bristle-short white hair, growing low around his ears; somewhere in the years between wet- behind-the-ears Ensign and here, sitting in his Ready Room, Captain of the _Enterprise_, he had acquired the authority reflected in his face. He was Captain of this ship; down to the marrow in his bones, and beyond that, to his soul, he was the Captain. In this closed, self-contained world, he was the living core, the center from which all else radiated, decisions considered and taken, actions proceeded or deferred, moments known and unknown flowed, his mind, his will, even his whim, capable of moving the _Enterprise_ and everyone and everything on it through the universe, like an unseen but all-powerful uniting force, like a god ...

Like a god, ultimately responsible for all the souls on his ship.

He leaned forward. "Computer, Personal Log." The computer chirruped softly.

"Personal Log: ..." He stopped, searching for the right words, words alien to his mind, his tongue: An expression of defeat. No, he couldn't, he wouldn't say that, not at least, yet. Well, what then? In the screen, he saw that his expression had changed from resolution, to anger, and even doubt. He sank back a little into his chair.

An acknowledgment, perhaps, for history. He gripped the armrests, and leaned forward. "Personal Log: Everyone in the Federation knows our situation. This ship is a match, and we've flown deliberately into the tinderbox. Should anything happen to the _Enterprise_ or to anyone aboard this ship while we're on this mission, let it be known that I personally accept full and moral responsibility. Let history record that my failures, as a man and as a Star Fleet Officer, brought this fate upon ourselves, and upon the Federation."

He leaned back into his chair after a moment. "Log off." He stared unflinchingly at the grim face reflected in the screen.

It was done. No throat-clearing, no chair-scraping, no finger-pointing, later on. If the _Enterprise_ was lost, the blame would ever lay squarely where it belonged: On his shoulders.


	2. PT ONE, Ch 1 -- The Orders

PART ONE

1. The Orders

Will Riker answered his door at the first signal, the smile of greeting on the younger man's face changing into a look of surprise, bright blue eyes widening; clearly expecting to see someone other than his Captain at the door of his quarters. The Second-in-Command of the _Enterprise_ was dressed in exercise clothing, a lethal-looking _bat'leh_ in his hand; coupled with Will's height and evident muscular strength, he was the picture of a man at the pinnacle of his physical powers.

Picard nodded. "You're on your way out," he said, and he started to turn away, glancing at the weapon in the other man's hand. "I take it you were going to meet Worf."

"Just for a little exercise; _that _can wait," Will answered, hastily stepping aside. "Please, come in, Jean-Luc."

He might have left anyway, except that he'd heard the quick interest in his Second in Command's voice. Instead, he stepped into the quarters and walked over to the table. The work screen was up, a few programs pushed off to the side, nothing important, he could see at a glance. Nothing that would keep his Second-in-Command from a good, hard workout, especially welcome, he was sure, after all their weeks of seeming inactivity, frustrating to a man of action like Will Riker.

"Can I give you some tea? Please, sit down," Will said, setting his weapon carefully on a chair and coming over to the table.

There was true hospitality in the deep, pleasant voice, a genuine welcome. Picard looked up into the other man's eyes. From the first day meeting William Riker, he had counted it as a blessing to be able to look into that open countenance in any situation and find in the expression not only his First Officer's excellent judgment but a man's honest sentiments; even when he didn't always like what he saw. He had never liked men around him who couldn't, read wouldn't, tell him the truth, even very unpleasant truths; it had occurred to him to wonder if that wasn't a measure of his own insecurities.

He raised his hand to stop his friend's kind attentions. "I'm only here for a moment, Will. We've just received our orders," he said, calmly; certainly he was calmer now, than when he had gotten the word an hour ago.

At the news, he could almost see the pulse quickening, feel the eager curiosity, in the younger man: Where, what place, what challenge lay ahead, what adventure awaited them? Will smiled. "At last. I was beginning to think they'd forgotten us out here."

"Not at all," he replied. "I'd say just the opposite, in fact." He touched the smooth, cold tabletop with his fingertips, looking at the reflections in the glass a moment, before turning back to look into the other man's eyes. "I thought you should know first. We're being ordered into the Corridor."

The expression didn't change, the eyes never even flickered: Ah. His First Officer had a formidable reputation as the best poker player on the _Enterprise_ and here was certain proof that he'd earned it. Tell the man they were headed into the most sensitive spot in the entire Federation, the place many were starting to suspect would see the beginning of the conflict with the Romulan Empire, and Will Riker didn't so much as turn a hair on that handsome head.

He nodded briskly. "I won't keep you any longer. We'll discuss the mission at the staff meeting in the morning," he said, starting for the door. "Good luck with Worf tonight."

And then he was out of the room, and down the passageway separating the Commander's quarters from his own.

He had just settled in with a cup of Earl Grey, black, boiling hot as he preferred, when his door signaled. It was Will, and in uniform, like himself. He felt more than a little relief at the sight, he readily admitted to himself, and no wonder. Will had a knack for doing the right thing at the right time. Now it was he offering a seat and refreshment. The young man sat down, politely declined tea, anything else.

He ran his fingertip lightly along the handle of his cup, looking over at his friend, musing for a moment. "Why won't you take the helm in your own ship, Will? You're eminently qualified to be a Captain, you know, certainly better prepared than I was on my first command."

His friend smiled, the blue eyes quick with amusement. "Why haven't you let them make you an Admiral, Captain?"

He laughed: _Touché. _"Someday, you know, they'll pry both our fingers off the bridge of the _Enterprise_." He felt a great sigh building in his chest, released it, as he sat looking at his friend. _The Corridor_. That was what had brought Will here, they both knew it. "We're being sent along to the Corridor on a routine tour of our Outposts there," he said at last, aware that he was being consciously reasonable in his tone.

Will was springing to his feet. "Good God!" His Second-in-Command balled his hands on his hips. "Is that what they're calling it? A 'routine tour?'" Almost spitting the words out, the expression on the younger man's face plainly speaking his incredulity.

"Mm. Not initially, no. The plan ... well, was quite different, originally, you may be interested to know. There was talk of sending an entire squadron in, for 'exercises', if you can imagine it." He had allowed himself to arch an eyebrow, on the word 'exercises'. "It was all I could do to talk us out of that particular scenario. That was the delay, you see."

Will's eyes had widened. "I think I'm beginning to," said his friend, finally, slowly, sinking back down into the chair, as if trying to absorb the meaning of all he had heard. "So our going was a compromise. Between sending in too damn many ships, and none at all. Well, but, I still don't understand why they're sending us - why _any_ Star Fleet ship this size needs to be sent into the Corridor. The status quo's held good all this time, why do anything to ... " He saw the realization dawning in the other man's eyes. " ... upset it? There's more to it than that," his Second-in-Command said. "You know, I'm having a hard time, frankly, figuring how all this came about, Jean-Luc. Suppose you help me out."

An invitation to unburden himself from the secret he'd been carrying. Yes, he would tell Will, tell him everything, hold nothing back. He set his tea cup aside, and folded his hands.

"This actually began at the Admiral's Dinner," he said.

[***]

Will was long gone, his own tea ice-cold, and still he sat on, brooding.

_By God!_

He sat up and pounded his fist against the table. His teacup jumped, the brown liquid inside sloshing, spoon rattling in the saucer.

By God, the Rebellion! He'd rather face Romulans bare-handed, by God, than fight the Rebels!


	3. PT ONE, Ch 2 -- The Corridor

A/N: Because this was originally intended as a stand-alone novel written in the early days of ST:TNG, I have some character intros in here which fans will of course find unnecessary. This chapter lays out the back story basis of the conflict discussed in the prologue and chapter one.

2. The Corridor

The next morning, when Picard entered the Observation Lounge, all of his senior officers were waiting at the conference table, turning in their chairs to look at him as he was crossing the room. Good. No need for delay.

His Ship's Counselor's gaze caught his attention first. Judging by the look in the dark Betazed eyes, Deanna Troi was gently feeling him out, gauging his emotional temperature, no doubt, much as a Terran doctor would ask, "How are you feeling today?" He raised a mental red flag, warning her: _Stay Out_. She would find out and understand his reasons, soon enough.

Next to her, Beverly Crusher, Ship's Doctor, was looking at him also, the green eyes radiating a friendly, unconditional kinship; and why not, he and Beverly had known each other for years and were the closest of friends. Open and gentle by nature, with an excellent scientific mind, the red-headed beauty was also given to fiery bursts of temper, and when she was angry, very little would stand in the way of her tongue, certainly not his rank. And yet, despite their very different temperaments, of all the people on board, it was Beverly whom he loved the most, and who, because of that closeness, knew and understood him best.

His Tactical Weapons Officer and Security Chief, Worf, sat at the other end of the table, the Klingon warrior's alert eyes watching him, as he walked across the room. Over the years, Worf had served faithfully and well, devoting his ferocious loyalty, unbending tenacity and acute instincts and intelligence, as well as his enormously strong body and fearlessness, to his Star Fleet service, to the ship, and to him; in a fight, Worf was one of the first men he'd want at his side.

Across the table, Commander Geordi LaForge, his Chief Engineering Officer, had been chatting with Lt. Commander Data; now both the Commander's sight visor and the golden eyes of the android were turned attentively to him. The friendship between the two men brought out all the best attributes in his Chief Engineer: Geordi LaForge's natural warm-heartedness and easygoing nature, his keen sense of justice and compassion, effected in part from his own blindness mitigated by the visor, his intellectual curiosity, as well as his unending patience, made the Chief Engineer the ideal friend, confidant, and role model for the android, though more and more, as the years went on, he himself had taken on those roles. Data was a work-in-progress, and as importantly to him, an excellent officer and a valued member of his crew, both for his wealth of stored knowledge, as well as his impartial observations and judgments when called upon to give them.

Commander William Riker was sitting in his customary chair, to the right of the Captain's seat. Will's steady gaze and calm expression were a welcome sight; besides Data, he could count on his Second-in-Command hearing the news of their deployment with restraint, having heard it already from him the night before.

He came around to the head of the table and was sitting down, as he did, nodding briskly to everyone. "We've received our orders. We're to proceed immediately to the Corridor, to visit our Outposts there." He turned to Data, feeling the instant change in the room at the news, as if the atmosphere had suddenly been charged with positive ion particles. "Mr. Data, please brief us on the Corridor. You don't have to confine yourself to the physical description of the place, give us, in general terms, the Corridor's relevant history as well." He leaned back in his chair, preparing himself to listen. This had been his plan: Deliberately calling on the android to give his other officers a little time to absorb the shocking news, and temper their attitudes, and comments, accordingly.

Data's golden eyes tilted up slightly, preparing to recite the information accessed from his data banks: And yet it was an expression so akin to human thoughtfulness that, despite the golden skin and eyes, he had to once again remind himself that Data was an android, merely configured to look human.

"The Corridor is a relatively small territory, located in the juncture between four areas: The Federation, the Klingon Empire, the Romulan Empire, and the Unexplored Territories," Data began, in his clear, coolly robotic voice. "Oral and written accounts indicate the Corridor was a neutral, independent state long before we came to know of its existence. The native people who lived in the Corridor, known as the Quarain, were a peaceful, non-aggressive humanoid race, predominantly merchant class, traders and sellers and providers of services, and famed for their tolerance. As interspace commerce grew, so grew the Corridor. Business thrived, travel and tourism increased, and the pleasure trades flourished: Some of the planets were devoted strictly to catering to the various sexual and narcotic pleasures of their visitors, roughly comparable to the Red Light districts in the Old Cities on Earth. On Kali, for example, there were men and women, the Knife Slaves as they were known, whose specialty was -"

"Yes, Mr. Data, you may leave those details to our imagination, and skip forward to where the Federation comes in," he hastily interrupted. Data stopped. He knew the android was not offended by the abruptness of his interruption. Aside from the fact that the android lacked emotion, Data had learned that the information assimilation system in humanoids were not only extremely limited, but also haphazard and quirky in its parameters: Data was often precluded from dispensing all the information he could access on a subject, even in the illustrative form the android had found his Federation colleagues preferred.

"The Federation was almost at the end of its First Outward Expansion, a period when its second-generation ships' primary mission turned from one of pure exploration to a concern with the consolidation of alliances," Data continued. "Hundreds of systems were brought into treaties and similar diplomatic instruments and modalities with the Federation, and hundreds more were in discussions, stretching the Federation's contacts almost to the borders of the Klingon and Romulan Empires. Would you like me to give the precise numbers and dates of these events, Sir?"

"Not necessary, Data, general terms will suffice. Please continue."

"Federation Star Fleet ships began to travel in and out of the Corridor with regularity. Reports were sent back from the area and analyzed, confirming the desirability of forming a strategic alliance with the Quarain. The Federation sought to establish a formal relationship through their Council of Eight but all diplomatic advances were rejected. Aware of the increasing friction between their neighbors, the Quarain held firm to their position of neutrality and the Federation eventually accepted that decision.

"This period also marked the escalation of hostilities between the Klingons and the Federation, and to a lesser extent, the Romulans and the Federation. Diplomatic missions were sent to open talks with both the Romulans and the Klingons, but attempts to enter peacefully into negotiations with either side were unsuccessful. After several initial, mostly hostile, encounters with the Romulans, their forces withdrew to within an area generally recognized as their territorial boundaries and a Neutral Zone was established. For its part, the Klingon Empire, after warring openly with the Federation, agreed finally to cease hostilities under the terms and conditions of the Klingon Peace Treaties.

"When the Treaties were being negotiated, the Quarain urgently petitioned both the Federation and the Klingons to be allowed into the talks, citing the Corridor's proximity to the other parties' involved. Interpreting the Prime Directive's bylaws regarding treaties, Federation parliamentarians turned the request down, ruling that the Quarain had no standing in the matter. When the Quarain pressed their petition, basing their insistence on fears of Romulan aggression if they could not enter into an alliance with the Federation, another ruling declared that including the Quarain in the talks without also bringing in the Romulans would not fairly represent either sides' rights and interests. When the Treaties were completed, the official documents were silent on the issue of the Corridor."

Geordi LaForge was shaking his head. "That's the thing I could never get," his Chief Engineer interjected. "When we initially asked the Quarain to ally themselves with us, they said, No thanks, we don't want any part of your troubles. Then, when it was obvious that the Quarain were begging us just for a seat at the table, we completely turned our back on them. We refused the Quarain, who were actively seeking the Federation's help, in favor of the Romulans, who didn't want anything at all to do with us. Ask me, that was chicken. And dumb."

_Chicken and dumb._ Well, he had learned long ago not to expect his Chief Engineering Officer to sugarcoat his opinions. Deanna's dark eyes were meeting LaForge's visor. "The entire situation had changed by then, Geordi. We were looking at a chance for real, lasting peace with the Klingon Empire, if we could come to terms. That peace treaty was, had to be, our first priority. Under those circumstances, the Quarain's concerns may have seemed like, at best, a distracting side issue to the negotiators, and at worst, a possible avenue back to open warfare. Looking at it from their perspective, it's possible to see a basis for the Federation's reasoning."

"Or at least reasons for their reasoning," LaForge said, drumming his fingers, once, softly on the table; it was all the emphasis he needed to make his point. "And don't forget: Whatever our reasons and motivations, the Romulans were free to interpret our actions, and undoubtedly did, in the worst light imaginable. They had to have figured that we were willing to do just about anything, including sacrificing the Quarain, for the sake of making peace with the Klingons."

Worf nodded, looking the wiser. "Yes: My own people made the same mistake initially, in their earliest judgment of the Federation, mistaking eagerness to come to terms with an enemy for weakness. Had we believed differently, generations of warriors might have been saved."

Deanna Troi leaned back in her chair. Her black eyes looked thoughtful. "It would be interesting to know what, if any, lessons the Romulans took from the Federation's war with the Klingons."

She appeared to be directing her question at Will Riker; it was exactly the kind of theoretical point the Commander would ordinarily have enjoyed debating. But his First Officer sat quietly on; he noted Will's silence, as he was nodding to Data. "Continue with what you were saying."

"Based on the personal diaries and notes of the negotiators at the Conferences, it now seems clear that there was a secret bilateral effort between the Klingons and the Federation to deliberately keep the Quarain out of the Treaty negotiations. They believed that, short of direct intervention which they wished to avoid, this so-called 'mutual hands-off' policy was the best, and only, chance left of sustaining the Corridor's neutrality and independence. However, when the Treaties were signed with no mention of the Corridor by either side, the Romulans stepped in and claimed the Corridor as part of their Ancient Territories, a claim for which they have offered no historical proof to this date."

Beverly gave a slight dismissive wave of her fingers. "That's as far as non-intervention got us," she said, without the slightest trace of sarcasm in her voice. "We took a diplomatic gamble with the Quarain, and we lost."

Deanna was shaking her head. "Again, we're judging all of this in hindsight. Though our efforts may have failed, our intentions were honorable. And, lest we forget, troubling as the situation was with the Quarain, the Klingon Peace Treaties were finally signed and delivered in the end."

Geordi turned up his hands. "I thought it was that kind of 'greater good' thinking the Prime Directive was supposed to get us out of," he said, shaking his head.

"The Federation decided to err on the side of caution," Deanna added. "Our new allies, the Klingons, had privately advised us that the Romulans could be a formidable enemy -"

"But my people also urged the Federation to take a hard line with the Romulans, as we did," Worf interjected. "We warned them the Romulans would not leave a perceived weakness untested."

Geordi nodded, in decided agreement. "And you were right. It must have looked like we were just rolling over, willing to sacrifice the Quarain, and give up the Corridor, pay any price, out of fear of a confrontation with them."

"But there had to be some benefit of the doubt given to the Romulans, surely," Deanna insisted. "At the time, we knew little more than stories and rumors about them. And, let's face it, we weren't only being idealistic, we were also being pragmatic. We had just recently made peace with the Klingons. Could we be sure that peace would hold if war broke out with the Romulans?"

Worf frowned at the Ship's Counselor. "My people would not have broken the Treaties."

"That was meant as an objective military observation, nothing to do with Klingon honor," Deanna replied. "Under those circumstances, anyone might have been tempted to take advantage of the Federation's vulnerable position."

"So we decided to give up the Quarain," Geordi quietly rejoined. "Peace at any price, like I said before."

"I know you believe the picture's that black-and-white, Geordi." Deanna shrugged. "It may seem as though the Prime Directive was just our excuse for not getting involved. But what if we weren't wrong? What if bringing the Quarain into the Treaty negotiations had thrown the whole negotiating process off-track? Then we'd be back to warring with the Klingons, and possibly the Romulans, and end up losing the Quarain, anyway. It appears that the Federation made the best out of a bad situation." Deanna paused. "In any case, it couldn't have been an easy decision to make," she added, looking thoughtful.

"And there's something else here I think we're forgetting, just as important, that Data touched on," Beverly said, looking around the table. "The Federation based its decision on the Prime Directive, remember. They have always said that they made an ethical decision to stay out of any conflict regarding the Corridor. In other words, at the time, we were trying very hard not to turn the Corridor fight into our fight: Isn't that what the Prime Directive's really about?"

"All in the interpretation, Doctor," Geordi replied. "The Prime Directive's our gorilla. It'll sit wherever on the fence we tell it to sit, let's not pretend otherwise."

The discussion was going afield. "We won't argue the Prime Directive today, if you don't mind," he said, nodding to Data to continue, glancing at his Chief Engineering Officer. "That's a philosophically interesting way of looking at the Directive, Mr. LaForge. Excuse me, Mr. Data."

"Although there was now technically an alliance between the Klingon Empire and the Federation that included mutual military support, in practical terms the Klingons were not then in a position to help repel the Romulan claim to the Corridor. After the war, the Klingon Empire was on the verge of collapse with their own internal political struggles. They would not act, but agreed to back the Federation in any action it chose to pursue. With that agreement in hand, the Federation made its position clear to the Romulans, at the Conference of Treva, mediated by the Vulcan delegation led by Ambassador Sarek, asserting that the Corridor was a neutral, sovereign territory which the Federation was prepared to defend from any aggressors. The Romulans did not agree and refused to withdraw their claim. Their position has never changed in this regard: They do not recognize outside entities as having any jurisdiction in their affairs. The Romulans concurrently asserted that the Federation had no legal standing in the Corridor, and therefore, no interest. Thus, through a long series of diplomatic maneuvers, the Federation was eventually forced into the position of also laying claim to the Corridor."

"Therefore managing to make everybody involved mad at us, and satisfying no one," Beverly sighed. "A no-choice, no-win situation."

"And while the Federation negotiators were doing a diplomatic two-step, the Romulans were going in, basically unchallenged, and not very friendly-like, to take hold of their new-claimed possession, and the Quarain and the rest of the inhabitants of the Corridor were fleeing for their lives. So, claim or no claim, we weren't defending our territory. Another mistake," the Chief Engineer said, fingertips again tapping on the table. "We laid claim to the Corridor, we talked about defending it, we just actually didn't do it. We abandoned the Quarain to their fate. How do you suppose that looked to the Romulans, Counselor?"

Deanna looked down the table at her questioner. "Impressions are always subject to interpretation, and I won't argue them with you," she replied. "I can only say that the Federation didn't take any action at that time because, rightly or wrongly, we were concerned about what the Romulans might do in retaliation if we moved to support our claim: Would a full-scale military engagement have improved the situation? They judged that it wouldn't. They kept trying for a diplomatic solution to a difficult and increasingly complex situation. Unfortunately, we could never come to an agreement. And though the Federation claim was only meant as a temporary measure to give legal footing to our position in the Corridor, once it was done, a consensus eventually grew within the Council that we couldn't back out until the issues were resolved."

Beverly shook her head, looking puzzled. "And then after Treva, the Romulans simply packed up their bags and left the Corridor without a word; and not a word since on the subject, I might add. Can anyone explain the Romulans to me? By all accounts, their warrior legions are innumerable, their weapons more powerful than ours, their ships better and faster. If you believe Geordi's version of things, we gave every sign of lacking the will to fight them over the Corridor. So why didn't they stay? Why didn't they fight?"

Geordi was shaking his head. "They were testing us. That's the prevailing thinking on the Council now, right, Counselor?"

"The 'straw-man' theory," Deanna agreed. "Some military theorists have come to believe that the Romulans were the secret instigators behind our conflict with the Klingons in order to observe and weigh our military prowess, and then set up the Corridor confrontation to provoke us and measure our resolve. And with these two tests completed, they've withdrawn to interpret the results and formulate their strategy."

Worf spoke up. "By those standards, the Federation must have surely seemed to have failed."

There was a moment's general silence at Worf's bleak, blunt assessment. Deanna shrugged. "There are hundreds of theories on the Romulans, Sir," she said, looking at him. "We know so little about them, as I've said to you before. The Romulans are a closed society, and like many closed things, their inner workings look mysterious and frightening to outsiders." Her black eyes were searching the air; he wondered if she were recalling the brief time she had spent on Romulus years ago. "Our enemy may be vastly different than what we've imagined. Their hostile behavior may be based in reactivity of some sort, an extreme fear of outsiders, for example, and they may be hiding those fears behind aggression. Their actions may perhaps be an indication that they are socially and psychologically weaker than we've so far been able to judge from this distance."

Thinking like a counselor. "Hmm," he murmured. "Like the Wizard of Oz, perhaps."

Beverly smiled. "That would be, to say the very least, quite a surprise."

Worf turned to Data. "Who is this Wizard, Commander?"

"The Wizard of Oz," Data repeated. "It is a human archetype, Mr. Worf, passed down through their history in various forms. In this version, the Wizard controls the Land of Oz. He hides behind a curtain and through smoke and mirrors convinces the people of Oz that he is an all-powerful being when in reality he is only a small, frightened man."

"That clearly isn't the case with the Romulans, Mr. Worf, it was merely an analogy that struck my fancy," he said. "I've no doubt that the Romulans are extremely powerful and a grave danger to the Federation. Mr. Data."

"When the Romulans moved out of the Corridor, the Federation moved in. With the Federation becoming increasingly involved, the Quarain formally petitioned the Federation Council for their freedom, but were refused. The Quarain eventually split into groups: The Klingons allowed the women and children to stay in the refugee settlements established for them at the beginning of the conflict, but ejected most of the men after it became clear they were organizing themselves into fighting units. It is believed the Quarain men traveled from encampment to encampment on the abandoned mining planets in the Corridor at first, but eventually began establishing hidden bases on some of the outlying planets near or just inside the Neutral Zone, using them for training grounds."

"And they couldn't possibly have done that without Romulan consent," Worf declared. "The Romulans have been backing the Rebellion from the beginning."

"Only a limited backing, I think, to this point, Mr. Worf," he said, nodding again to Data.

"All attempts to negotiate a settlement with the Quarain failed. Federation outposts in the Corridor began to report guerrilla attacks, attributed after investigation to Rebel fighters. Patrol ships were finally sent in to protect our people in the Corridor."

"Thank you, Mr. Data, I'll take this point," he interrupted. "We offered to work with the Quarain, to limit our presence to only what was strictly necessary to enforce our claim and keep the Romulans out, in short, to negotiate terms for their return, but they refused to come back until we left." He looked around the table, keeping his expression and his voice carefully neutral. "You all know that the Corridor is the only territory the Federation holds by force."

"And we can't leave the Corridor unless and until the Romulans formally withdraw their claim," Beverly interjected. "There's the impasse: We don't trust the Romulans, and they want nothing to do with us." She shook her head. "So we're stuck."

Stuck in the Corridor; an apt metaphor, and a fairly precise assessment of the Federation's current situation. "There are Federation outposts in every system, from one end of the Corridor to the other," he continued. "And, as the Doctor's pointed out, we can't leave until there's some resolution of the Corridor's status. For all of that, the situation in the Corridor was considered a rather minor territorial dispute until recently." He nodded again to Data, having deliberately taken the sensitive part of the story for himself. "Let's move on."

"Attacks decreased within the Corridor, and expanded and escalated to other nearby Federation systems. The early attacks were minor skirmishes, terrorizing and ransacking colonies for the most part, with few casualties on either side. Merchant ships were seized, and according to later intelligence reports, the cargoes sold in order to purchase weapons, and the seized vessels overhauled into fighting ships. Isolated Federation outposts were also raided, presumably in order to obtain strategic information enabling them to carry on their campaigns which, until recently, had been largely successful."

"There has been a change in their fortunes recently," said Deanna. "The Rebels have suffered some tremendous defeats in the last year."

"Very surprising, considering the extraordinary success they'd had for years in their raids," Beverly said, in a musing tone. "They'd stolen ships and weapons and carried off anything they could sell or trade, almost at will."

"The scuttlebutt is that they've had inside help," LaForge said, quietly. "Someone high-up in the Star Fleet hierarchy."

Will Riker leaned forward, both fists clenching on the table, eyes blazing. "I don't believe that talk, and I don't like hearing it, Mr. LaForge. No one in Star Fleet would be traitor enough to help the Rebellion."

The Commander's daunting tone silenced the room. Beverly leaned back in her chair and sighed, shaking her head. "My God, what a mess."

Yes, indeed. He suppressed his own sigh, and the feelings underneath, the frustration, the impotent anger, with the entire ghastly mess. As he often did, reminding himself that the Romulans were greatly to blame in this, it wasn't all the Federation's doing: And yet, regardless of who was most to blame initially, here they were, with a Rebellion on their hands, and seemingly no way out of it. The Federation's options were strictly limited, to bad and none.

He nodded after a moment. "All right. Now, because they've had some setbacks doesn't mean the Rebel fighters are preparing to go gentle into that good night. Quite the reverse, I think, judging by what we've heard of recent attacks, they've shown themselves to be a tenacious, and audacious, adversary. What this all means for us, ladies and gentlemen, is work, at once routine and delicate. We will visit each of our outposts in the Corridor, and carry out our usual duties of assisting, observing, assessing and reporting, just as we would at any port of call. The Corridor is claimed Federation space, after all. We have the right of free passage. Mr. Data, traveling at warp eight, how long until we arrive at Selasdana?"

"Approximately -"

"Selasdana!" Beverly looked surprised, the green eyes wide. "Well, that's starting in the middle! Selasdana's smack dead in the center of the Corridor." And then pursed her mouth; sensitive, perhaps, to her unfortunate use of the word "dead."

"Yes," he replied, meeting her eyes. "There's no point trying to do this thing subtly, Doctor. The last thing we want to do is look like we're creeping edgewise into the Corridor. Selasdana is the most important outpost in the Corridor, therefore we will go first to Selasdana." He was quiet another moment. Under ordinary circumstances, he wouldn't have to say anymore, but in this case ...

"I don't want there to be any doubt in your minds: With so much at stake, our mission must be carried out with resolve." He looked directly at Geordi LaForge. "If our actions were open to misinterpretation before, they can't and won't be now, not any taken by this ship under this command, at any rate. We've been ordered to visit our outposts, therefore we will do so, and no playing about. We won't look for trouble, but we won't back away if we're confronted. Not from anyone: Rebels or Romulans." After a deliberate pause, returning his gaze to Data. "Excuse me, Mr. Data. Our E.T.A.?"

"At warp eight, we will arrive at Selasdana Outpost in approximately seventy-seven hours," Data replied. "The exact time of arrival contingent on your giving the orders, Sir."

Yes, he had considered that, considered refusing to give the order, had even considered resigning in protest. But, ultimately, he had accepted the mission: If he had refused, they would certainly have sent someone else, perhaps some younger, more inexperienced Commander, with possibly more testosterone than was strictly useful. Under the circumstances, he hoped he wasn't deluding himself in thinking that he was the best choice for this assignment. But only time would tell whether or not this was so, and that time was close approaching.

He nodded to the others: Meeting over. "We'll start right away. That's all. You have the bridge, Commander. I'll be in my Ready Room," he said, as his officers were standing to leave the meeting.

"Yes, Sir," his Second-in-Command said. He watched Will go; always, that easy athletic grace in the other man's step. Will had been quiet during the meeting, with the exception of the one angry outburst. He would have to speak with the Commander, clarify any issues that had been left unresolved by their talk the evening before; a rare occurrence, indeed. But there wasn't an inch of room for miscues on this mission, they had to understand each other completely -

Deanna Troi was returning to the table; he quickly stood. "Deanna, this is a hell of a way, pardon me, to say goodbye -"

"I'm staying with the ship, Captain," she said, typically Betazed, going straight to her point. "You'll need your Ship's Counselor with you in the Corridor."

"Indeed. But you have an important commitment to fulfill. You were selected to take the lead in the diplomatic negotiations with the Balthuzans, that must take precedence over this mission."

"The Federation must understand that I can't leave the _Enterprise_ at this critical moment. If you were to ask the Council for a waiver, they would surely grant it."

"I won't ask for a waiver, Deanna," he replied, firmly. "You must go, the Federation is counting on you in these negotiations; their leader, Karin, trusts only you, I'm told. That is a display of confidence neither you or the Federation can ignore. And especially since that system is so close to the Corridor; completing this treaty is critical. We need to shore up all of our alliances in that part of the quadrant, you know that."

This too-quick reply Deanna could read without her empathic abilities, the black eyes flashing their understanding. She nodded. "And if I don't go there, there's always the chance Karin, and the Balthuzans, might come here looking for me. She always was impetuous, as I recall from our days at school, and that tribe follows her lead in everything," she said, a rueful look in the dark eyes.

And the last thing he needed to have to deal with in the Corridor was the strong-willed, opinionated, impetuous Balthuzans and their equally problematic leader. He patted Deanna's shoulder. "Go. And, thank you, Counselor. I won't deny I'd like to have you with me on this tour. Let's hope for the best, that your diplomatic mission finishes quickly, and you return sooner than anticipated to the ship."

Her expression was suddenly sober; the empathic abilities had perhaps picked up on his deeper fears. "Let's also hope that the briefing you asked me for last month on the Romulans won't be needed ..."

He saw the realization dawning on her face: How long had he known about this? Yes, too long, Deanna. I'm sorry if I couldn't confide all that was in my heart these last months to you. And yet, of all the people onboard this ship, you are the one I least have to explain my dilemma to, you understand why I couldn't tell anyone about this until now, without my saying a word.

She nodded then, an encouraging smile breaking over her lovely face. "Clear sailing, Captain."

"Take care, Deanna."

He watched her go out of the room. Deanna Troi ... Will Riker; when it came to saying goodbyes, one thought led naturally to the other; Will and Deanna had been engaged and broken up, years ago, long before either officer came to the Enterprise. Beverly had sometimes tried, subtly of course and without success, to draw him out on the subject. For his part, he didn't see anything beyond affection for Deanna in Will now, the affection of an old friend. What Beverly knew of Deanna's heart, he wouldn't venture to ask; it was strictly their business, and as long as it didn't affect the ship -

He felt the warp engines engaging, saw the stars flashing by in the windows to his right. They'd stop briefly in their way to drop Deanna at the nearest space station, and then ...

Well, it was done. They were on their way to the Corridor. And, the other reason he'd asked for the history lesson from Data, as a subtle distraction, had worked: He'd managed to get through the meeting without anyone asking why they were going. Only Will had asked, last night, and that had been, more or less, at his invitation.


	4. PT ONE, Ch 3 -- The Admiral

3. The Admiral's Dinner

"This actually began at the Admiral's Dinner," Picard had started out by saying, after they had settled into his room the evening before. "The subject came around to the Corridor, although the Dinner's meant to be social, you know, to introduce the new-made Admirals to each other, and to an honored few Captains allowed into their presence, myself included this round. I was minding my own business, and doing rather well, all things considered; you know how much I dislike those functions. And then Richard brought up the subject of the Rebellion; Admiral Richard Schoenhutt was host this year, I don't believe you knew that."

Will slapped his hands against his thighs. "Oh, hell, but I should have guessed! Admiral Richard Schoenhutt! That's what this little tour's really all about, isn't it? A last-ditch try for one of the Seats on the Council, which he thinks he deserves, at his august age, and now that he's nearing retirement. Well, he's never getting in, they'll never accept him, he's the last person in the world they'd accept! And with good reason, the best of reasons: He isn't worthy of it. Not even close."

He couldn't let this pass; the responsibility lay far too heavily elsewhere. "Don't be so hasty, Will," he said, quietly. "Schoenhutt's not a fool or a coward, for all his ambition. As the youngest Captain in the fleet at the time, he directed the last successful campaign against the Klingons, brilliantly, recall. Some of the medals on his uniform were put there for valor."

His Second-in-Command clamped his mouth shut; despite a strong temptation to leave it at that, reminding himself that it had long been their custom to speak freely to each other in private. "All right, say it."

Gratefully, fiercely, Will leaned forward. "With due respect to all the pretty fruit salad on Admiral Schoenhutt's chest, and begging your pardon, Jean-Luc, the war with the Klingons was nearly over when Captain Schoenhutt got his command. Secret negotiations were already going on, some of the sectors had already declared a truce -"

He held his hand up. "He did fight some decisive battles, and it was enough to pressure the Klingons, although they'd never admit it, into signing the Treaties earlier than they intended to, and on better terms than we had reason to expect. Fair's fair, Will. Give the Admiral his due."

The younger man stubbornly shook his head. "Not in my book. He prolonged the fighting in his sector; the Klingons were throwing every ship, every weapon, every man, they had at us in the last months in that one particular sector, the one he was commanding, and why? Because of Captain Schoenhutt's - because of what he was doing to the Klingons he captured."

"You can't judge him by today's standards, Will, when the Klingons are our allies. It was a terrible war against an implacable enemy, there were atrocities on both sides. The Board who investigated after the war didn't bring charges; they could find no evidence that his actions were unjustified. His men had nothing but praise for him. And remember: The Klingons who were there and witnessed those events refused to testify against him."

"No, and the Board knew they wouldn't." Will was lifting his chin, narrowing his eyes. "If the Klingons themselves couldn't carry out what justice they felt Schoenhutt deserved with their own hands, it would have dishonored them to bring their enemy to another, to their eyes weaker, form of justice. And then, with the Treaty negotiations underway everyone was more than happy to forget about the whole filthy thing. But, just mention Schoenhutt's name to Worf for the truth of what I say."

He tugged his jacket down. "That's all in the past -"

"His past is relevant here! Jean-Luc, there's good reason history warns against generals who keep fighting their last war over. Schoenhutt may have been a superb strategist against the Klingons, let's say he was, let's say his extreme tactics were called for, even needed, then. But the Klingons aren't the Rebels, and they sure as hell aren't the Romulans. Is this really the man we want to have guiding Federation policy now?"

His silence conceded the point; William Riker was second to none in his grasp of military history, strategy and theory. "I was saying that Schoenhutt was speaking about the Rebellion at the dinner, blasting the Rebels for their raids, absolutely livid about their latest attack at Carver Station, and oh, by the way, very nearly confirming the rumor that the Rebels have _Chameleon_."

Will stared at him, shaking his head. "That's impossible, that's got to be another one of Schoenhutt's paranoid delusions, begging your pardon again, Jean-Luc. _Chameleon_ was our cloaking project, and it didn't pan out, even the theoretical work on it was shut down after the Treaties; the Rebels couldn't possibly have _Chameleon_, because it doesn't exist."

"Mmm," he said, thoughtfully: The way the Admiral had said it that night had left little doubt in his own mind. "Well, and then, he started to say that something needed to be done to stop the Rebellion. That the Rebels were merely pawns in the Romulan's grand game of conquest, the entire quadrant was going to be weakened, destabilized, if the Rebels weren't stopped soon, and if that happened, nowhere in the Federation would be safe from the Romulans."

Will's look was plainly speaking his contempt. "The domino theory. Worn out as it is, still a handy little excuse for aggression."

"One of the oldest in history," he agreed. "And with no clear, convincing evidence that I've been able to see. I mean, yes, I don't imagine the Romulans would be above that sort of thing, aiding and abetting the Rebellion, and yes, it's possible, even probable, the Rebels might be in limited cahoots with them -"

"But to their own ends, Jean-Luc!'" Will interrupted him, standing up again. "For God's sakes, it's a war of independence, the Council knows that! That's why there's no winning strategy, no plan, to successfully keep the Corridor in the Federation; because there can't be. The Quarain are this century's To, or the twenty-first century's Irish Republican Army, the eighteenth century's Minutemen of Concord. And that's precisely why everything the Federation's tried so far has failed miserably, and will keep failing. We're never going to win this thing, and we're just going to keep losing good men trying."

He was quiet. Hearing the words from his First Officer's mouth was not the same thing as thinking them. And he was, above all, and so was Will, a Star Fleet officer. Not only that: He had a feeling this whole Rebellion situation was going to be a career maker, or breaker. The Rebellion inspired passionate debate, Will's opinion wasn't even close to the strongest that he had heard. But there was no need to ruin a young man's bright future with a few warm, careless words.

"Please sit down," he said, softly. "And I must remind you to be careful what you say about the Rebellion, even to me, Will. Certain sentiments could be considered treasonous, even mutinous, under the right circumstances."

Will stared at him, his face beginning to flush. "I don't want to believe you're questioning my loyalty, Jean-Luc."

"Take it as a word of advice. You have some idea how truly delicate this situation is. As a senior officer, Second in Command of this ship, and all that implies, I simply can't have you expressing the slightest reservations in front of the other officers, much less the crew, where the Corridor is concerned."

He held his Commander's eyes: In this, he wouldn't give an inch. After a moment, the younger man sat; a tacit admission of compliance, recognition of error. He knew his Executive Officer well enough to know that the warning wouldn't need to be repeated. And after a moment, he began to speak again as though nothing had passed. A mistake was a mistake, he had no desire to rub Will's nose in it. After all, he had made virtually the same mistake, and with grave consequences, as his Second in Command would soon hear and understand.

"At some point, Schoenhutt began to use some rather vulgar language, in reference to the Rebels. There was a lady sitting to my left." He smiled, at the memory. "A scientist; actually, two scientists were there. You'll never guess who?"

Will shrugged, a little stiffly. "Scientists, at the Admiral's Dinner?"

"Yes, why would they be there? It was the same thing I remember thinking at the time. I supposed at Schoenhutt's invitation. Anyway, there they were: Doctors Eric and T'Prianne Rhaenn."

The younger man's eyes widened, the earlier, stinging admonishment seemingly put aside now, in his surprise. "You're serious? Eric and T'Prianne Rhaenn were there?"

"My dinner partners, yes, indeed, visiting from Selasdana, which, you know, they rarely leave, so their presence that evening was quite an honor. Eric Rhaenn sat to my right, T'Prianne to my left. They were absolutely delightful people, Will, I had the most wonderful time talking with them."

"I'd think so, anyone would. I certainly would," Will murmured. "The man who originally theorized plasma drive, the woman who discovered the universal neuronic microvirus. Two of this century's scientific geniuses, the pride of the Federation."

"Exactly. T'Prianne told me she was working on the vaccine, and hoped to have it ready within months. The mind boggles. Can you imagine?"

Thinking about it later, he wasn't exactly clear on how the whole thing had come about. He had arrived at the reception in good time, wearing his Naval dress, but at the doors of the Great Hall, there had been some idiotic mix-up about his invitation which no one could seem to work out, and when he had finally been allowed to enter the hall, everyone was leaving the anteroom to go into dinner; he had missed the reception. Warily, knowing Rich Schoenhutt would not be pleased at his tardiness, he was entering the dining room behind some other guests, when here came out of nowhere, an extraordinarily beautiful woman, graceful and tall, walking a step ahead of him. He was frankly admiring her figure under the light lavender gown, the long, lush black hair falling in shining curls down her back, wondering what entrancing fragrance it was she was wearing that could so fill and arouse his senses, when she turned and looked directly at him, her violet eyes so stunning as to leave him utterly speechless. Embarrassed at almost being caught out staring at her backside, he put on as polite a smile as he could and bowed slightly to the lady, and to his great surprise, she had stopped and taken his arm, walking with him the rest of the way into the room. And then, to his even greater surprise, the lady had simply seated herself down next to him at the table. She had introduced herself then as Dr. T'Prianne Rhaenn, and before he could recover himself enough to do little more than introduce himself in return, she had gestured to someone behind him, and there was the man she had introduced as her husband, Dr. Eric Rhaenn, sitting down on his left, plucking the place card from his setting without looking at it and tucking it under the nearest floral arrangement; that impromptu seating had caused a bit of an embarrassed scramble around the table, which the scientists had blithely ignored. He suspected that Schoenhutt was the one the distinguished pair had snubbed, because the Admiral had looked long and hard at him from the head of the table, before signaling the waiters to begin serving. Maybe that, too, had something to do with what came later.

"Of course, being a mere Captain, I was down at the farthest end of the room, and so when Schoenhutt began his obscene rant, I turned to T'Prianne and struck up a little quiet conversation." Officers and gentlemen; at least, he hadn't forgotten that there were ladies present. The violet eyes had taken up all of his attention so that he hadn't immediately realized how quiet the room had become. When he looked up, at last, the Admiral was glaring at him again. "Schoenhutt declared that the Rebels had for years been suspected of having collaborators on the inside, secret sympathizers who had been feeding them valuable military information. And now, with a _Chameleon_ involved in the latest attack, there couldn't be any doubt whatsoever that they were getting help from someone inside Star Fleet. For all he knew the traitor could be sitting right here in this room at this table. You can guess who he was looking at when he wondered out loud if the Rebels might be in league with, not only the Romulans, but the Borg as well."

Will's eyes narrowed, his mouth tightened: Yes. His friend knew the Borg comment had been a direct slap at him, Captain Jean-Luc Picard, a.k.a., the Borg known as Locutus. Well, it was no more than what he was sure some said behind his back, others wondered in their hearts: Had his mind really been freed from the assimilation he had undergone, or was he still a captive of the Borg? Was he, somewhere deep in a far hidden recess of his consciousness, still part of the collective known as the Borg? In the farthest reaches of his soul, was he Picard - or Locutus?

One or two of the people sitting at the table had turned and stared directly at him, others glanced quickly down his way before looking away, but most kept their faces stiffly forward, angry pride evident in their expressions; even these were unable to say anything in his support, and he understood why: Schoenhutt was senior among the officers present, any fight would come down, rightly, on his side. And the Admiral's reputation as vindictive was widely-held and richly deserved. If only Berger, or Necheyev, or any of the other senior Admirals had been there, instead of these new, junior men ...

"I offered to get T'Prianne some more wine, and I excused myself and stood and walked away from the table." There were servers, and she hadn't touched her wine; it was just an excuse. "I heard his voice behind me. 'It's always been so. When I fought the Klingons, there were those whose hearts bled for the filthy scrubboardheads. Mark my words, when we go after the Rebels, we'll see who the heroes are, and who the cowards and traitors.'"

Why couldn't he keep walking? No: He had stopped dead in his tracks. He had felt the sting of the words, their venom shooting quick and hot into his veins, but had managed, even then, to keep still. He hadn't turned, had just stood there, waiting; in his farthest, coolest mind hoping perhaps that someone would say something, tell a joke, anything at all, to break the tension. And in fact, someone had: T'Prianne Rhaenn started to speak.

"T'Prianne began to tell about an interesting experiment she was conducting; inducing synaptic reactions through patterns hidden within color." Someone else eagerly grasped at the straw, asking her a question in a high, quavering voice. He started to relax, took a step or two forward. "And then Schoenhutt said, 'Yes, that's all very nice, Doctor, but what's really needed is the invention of a spine. For those of our officers who, when faced with a difficult situation, find it easier to simply cede, to crawl away with their tails between their legs, instead of taking a stand for the Federation, proper little boys who hate getting their uniforms dirty, cowards who insist on running and hiding behind the Prime Directive, and calling their lack of courage playing by the rules, when it's real valor that's called for, and valiant men. Men like Admiral James T. Kirk, a real Captain of the _Enterprise_, with a real backbone, a man who understood what you could do under the auspices of the Prime Directive, a true leader of men, and not just some tricked-up, overly precious, data-collecting ship steerer.'"

Surprising how, even after all this time, he could recall the exact words; time hadn't blurred them in his mind at all.

Will Riker's face was flushed red, breathing hard. "That son-of-a-bitch," Will hissed, between his teeth. "I wish to God I'd have been there. He wouldn't have to have wasted half so many words before he'd gotten my response."

He shook his head. "Then you would have been absolutely in the wrong, just as I was wrong to allow myself to be goaded; chivvied like a schoolboy, my God! I should've kept my temper. In the face of a few phrases, a little foolishness - Nothing!"

He rubbed his eyes, suddenly tired. Why couldn't he have walked away? Why?

"Well, obviously, he didn't press charges, Jean-Luc. He must have realized he deserved to be decked for what he said to you."

His eyes flew open. "Oh, I didn't hit him. For one thing, there were too many people around, I would have never reached him. And in front of T'Prianne -" Tangling like animals: Unthinkable! But, he wondered later, if it _had_ come to blows, perhaps the whole thing would have been overwith and done that night. _Had that been his mistake?_ Where, exactly, had been his error, or had there been a series of them? He'd gone over the whole thing so many times in his mind since then ...

"I turned and walked toward the table where he was sitting. I said, 'Traitors, cowards; you're very free with these words, Admiral. What about honor, courage, commitment? Do those words mean anything to you? Those words were in the oath I took, those are the words I'd fight for.' He said, 'Courage! How many men have you killed face-to-face, Picard? How many Rebels would you kill? Never, not one.' As though it were a pissing contest, my God! I said, 'Have you forgotten that the Quarain are our people, Sir? Or does that mean anything to you? Are you so blinded that you can't see the Federation's purpose clearly anymore?' He said, 'You're the one who's forgotten our mission, if you ever knew it, Picard. To boldly go, boldly, bravely, not fearfully, not timidly.' 'Yes,' I said, '"To boldly go," but go in peace, Admiral, _in peace_. We're explorers, not colonists planting flags, not proselytizing missionaries, certainly not conquering militarists. The Prime Directive is absolutely clear on this point.' 'There you go again,' he said, and he laughed. 'Always keeping your skirts clean with the Prime Directive. Lets you out of plenty of fights, doesn't it?'" He paused. "I will admit it to you, Will: That sneering, scornful laugh, as much as anything he said, was what finally got to me. I said, 'Admiral, an Ensign, a first year Midshipman at the Academy, knows more about the Prime Directive, in both letter and spirit, than you ever did.' I said, 'And furthermore, Admiral, if this is really about the Rebels, which I greatly doubt, then I'd pursue all the Rebels you could ever wish to task me with, yes, and remembering what they do when they're cornered, which apparently doesn't bother your conscience, but even so: Even so, I would seek out and kill every single Rebel I could find, and in a style wholly suited to your own taste. I'd cheerfully cut up their bodies, chop off their heads, slice open their veins, draw out every drop of their blood, deprive them of their hearts and souls, with one condition: If you would give me a justifiable reason for doing it.' He looked me up and down, said, 'Who are you, Captain, to ask for reasons?' I said, 'Just the man you'd be asking to do the killing, that's who. That's all. I think I have a small right to know why I'd be doing it, why I should take these Rebel's lives. I mean a reason beyond your own political ambitions, and your bigoted, bloodthirsty hatreds, and your paranoid ramblings about the Romulans. Romulans, Romulans! I am sick to the gills of justifying every bloody thing ever done to any enemy, real and perceived, in the name of saving the Federation from the Romulans. Give me one good, solid reason to kill these Rebels, Admiral.' He said, 'You'll do it, if I order you to, Mister, or face charges.' Oh, I smiled then, feeling I'd carried my point - as if that mattered! I said, 'Well, if that's all your reason, then,' and I turned my back on him, and started to walk away. He said, 'This is rank insubordination, Picard. I can have your commission for this.' I spun around and came back, and I pulled, I tore, my collar insignia off and I threw it on the table in front of him. 'Take it, then,' I said, 'Take it. My commission isn't worth a damn to me at your bloody price.' And then _he_ smiled, as I was turning to leave the room. I heard him say, 'Ah, no, Captain Jean-Luc Picard: I've got something better planned for you.'"

Well, what had he expected? After the open challenge to Schoenhutt's authority, in front of all the other officers present at the dinner. Even if the Admiral had been so inclined, which he certainly wasn't, Schoenhutt could never let him get away with a scene like that. He paused, blinking himself back into the present, nodded. "He certainly did have something planned for me, didn't he? Of course, I had thought it would be arrest and a court-martial or some other sort of public humiliation which I certainly deserved and expected. I stayed in my quarters all the next day, waiting to hear something, that I was being charged and held over for trial, or that my resignation had been accepted. When no word came, I just assumed I would be recalled from the ship at some later date. I was preparing to leave when Admiral Necheyev came to see me. In short order, she told me there had been a heated debate among the brass as to what to do about my tendered resignation, right up until the very last minute. She made it clear that under almost any other circumstances I would have been charged, or my offer to resign would have been accepted; a thorough scolding, richly warranted, and so I kept still, wondering what she was getting at. Then came the surprise. The Admiral took me into her absolute strictest confidence: A full detachment was about to be deployed into the Corridor as part of a tactical exercise, and the plans would most likely be finalized very soon. She had been pressing for the _Enterprise_ to be chosen to lead the contingent, a choice that had obviously now become problematic. Nevertheless, she was prepared to quietly overturn my decision if under the circumstances I now felt differently about leaving. You can surely imagine all that I felt after hearing this. Of course, there was no question what I should do: I had to stay on."

The look in the Admiral's eyes were all the confirmation he needed that she had heard what she had expected to hear; his resignation was never mentioned again. As the months went on and he had taken the lead, quietly but firmly and insistently, in opposing Star Fleet's plans, it had occurred to him to wonder if the Admiral hadn't picked this very public fight with him precisely then, hoping to get him out of the way ahead of the final plans for the Corridor expedition; certainly, he had immediately realized that if he had left, he would have given up any opportunity he might have of influencing Star Fleet out of what he considered a disastrous decision.

He rubbed his hands over his eyes, his heart accusing him, as it had a million, million times since that night: _Had he known what they were planning before_ ... "I suppose it isn't necessary to say this: It must be quite obvious to you by now that it was Schoenhutt who signed the order sending us into the Corridor."

After a moment, he spoke again, remembering the strange coda to that fateful evening. "Admiral Necheyev's decision may have been influenced by what happened right after the scene with Richard; she certainly must have heard about it: T'Prianne Rhaenn, stood up and left the table, calling my name. I could not ignore her, of course, and so I stopped and waited as she walked toward me. She had my collar insignia in her hand which she handed over, cool as you please, along with a standing invitation to dinner, anytime I happened to be by Selasdana."

He shook his head, remembering her words and her deep, graceful bow, the entire gathering watching in what he perceived was shocked amazement, no greater than his own, at the honor, after what had just transpired. "I never dreamed I'd be taking her up on her offer."


	5. PT ONE, Ch 4, The Chameleon

4. The _Chameleon_

"Computer, Security Report."

The screen filled with the data requested. Picard read it all carefully, a sigh escaping him afterwards.

What he had read had not failed to assure him; he had known that it would beforehand, the report certifying that his ship was well-prepared for anything the _Enterprise_ might encounter while they were in the Corridor. The reason he was nevertheless unhappy reading it was the problem - the _real_ problem, he admitted to himself. He didn't want to be attacked by the Rebels: Not because the _Enterprise_ couldn't defend herself, but because she would, and he didn't want to have to retaliate against what, at bottom, came down to their own people. _His_ own people, people he had sworn to look out for, to defend, whom he was morally obligated to protect. He didn't want to be here: They shouldn't be here. They _wouldn't_ be here, if he could have held his tongue that night, as he should have, in front of Richard Schoenhutt.

He had argued, fought, reasoned, against sending the _Enterprise_ into the Corridor. It was at best a thankless task, and at worst, a needless provocation, whose outcome had at least some potential of all-out engagement with the Romulans, a point that had finally persuaded the top brass involved in the operation, enough of them anyway, to revise their plans. Well, notwithstanding what he had said at his staff meeting, he was determined: This tour would not be the one to bring about the Big Fight, if he could help it. He would do all that was in his power to avoid any confrontation with the Romulans.

_Romulans._ He smiled sadly to himself. He had excoriated Schoenhutt for being obsessed with the Romulans, and look at what his own thoughts were preoccupied with.

_Rebels._ If the Rebels would have ever just agreed to negotiate, the Federation was prepared to - what? Forgive and forget, and rebuild the renegade territories, and the Quarain could come back home, under Federation protection, of course. The Rebels, understandably, had their own view of the situation. They considered the Federation presence an occupation force from which they were fighting to free themselves - The clock softly chimed the hour, interrupting his thoughts.

He swiveled his chair around slightly, looking at the aquarium in the wall to his right, watching the jewel-bright fish circling round and round, dream-like, in their tank. He closed his eyes, leaning his head against the back of his chair, hands loose on the armrests. Except for the purr of the ship's engines and the bubbling aquarium, the room was silent.

It was time to leave his Ready Room for his quarters; he had earlier found a dinner invitation waiting for him there from Eric and T'Prianne Rhaenn, and he still had to change into his dress uniform before transporting down to their home. It would be a pleasure seeing them again, the only pleasure he'd get from this mission, very likely. He didn't want to be late for dinner, in any case.

He sat up. "Computer, close file." The screen flicked off. He stood, tugging his shirt smartly down, and started for the door leading out to the passageway.

"Captain to the bridge."

Turning back, he was walking in the other direction, through the door leading to the bridge. Worf looked up from the sensor panels, shifting that formidable body around to face him directly. "What is it, Mr. Worf?"

"The short-range sensors have picked up - an unusual reading, Sir," Worf replied.

A note, alarmingly low and taut, had sounded in the deep voice. He deliberately glanced over the screens: Status normal. Looking up, facing Worf squarely. The dark eyes were glittering, a chill running up his spine at the sight. "An unusual reading?"

"Yes, Sir. It was - Well, it appeared to be - As I say, unusual, Sir," came the reply.

A non-answer from Worf? Worse and worse. Combined with the pitched tone of his voice, the gleam in those eyes ... something had excited the warrior's blood, some bell had gone off in that alien nervous system. "Yes?"

And yet Worf hesitated again. "It was - There was only a trace of a reading, Sir, but the sensors interpreted it as - it looked like - well, it _was _- a _Chameleon_, Captain," his Security Officer said, finally.

He tensed, the words vibrating through his body and brain. "A _Chameleon_? You're sure?" he asked, searching Worf's face, instinctively, for any signs of doubt: But though there'd been caution in the words, the glowing eyes indicated absolute certainty.

Clearly, his Weapons Officer was excited, and excitement in a Klingon meant one of two things, and there weren't any Klingon women around. It had to be the arousal of possible proximate battle. "Captain, our sensors indicated a _Chameleon_ signature," Worf replied. "However, I am re-analyzing the data now."

He knew the answer wasn't a hedge. The sensors _could_ be wrong; very likely they were. The simple fact was, despite what he'd heard at the Admiral's dinner, there was no evidence to prove that _Chameleon_ existed. On the other hand: When was the last time the sensors had been wrong, or for that matter, Worf's interpretation of the readings? "Where is the _Chameleon_ now, Mr. Worf?"

"Possibly out of sensor range, Sir," Worf replied. "Vanished."

He turned to the array of computer panels again, quickly scanning them for himself. The screens changed from moment to moment, amassing, processing, and interpreting the data continually feeding into the computers from the external and internal sensors. There was no sign of a _Chameleon_, or anything like it. He could ask for a replay of the data, but what would be the point in that? Worf could read the sensors as well as anyone, better perhaps, with his superior intelligence coupled to an uncanny instinct for danger; there was not much reason for doubt. And yet, he did doubt. Perhaps, because he wanted to? No: he had to give some credence to the report, he had to face the unhappy possibility that they had encountered a _Chameleon_ signature on their screens. The worst was here, and so fast!

His Second in Command was coming into the room, walking toward them. "What's going on?"

"Mr. Worf thinks we may have caught a _Chameleon_ on our sensors, Number One."

Eyes widening, Will was turning to stare at Worf. "Say again, Mister?"

"A ship signature registered on our screens, Commander," Worf replied. "It was only a trace reading, Sir, an interpretation, but - The sensors read it as a _Chameleon_."

"That isn't possible," Will said, bluntly, without hesitation.

Worf frowned. "Sir, we are right in the middle of the Corridor. The Rebellion -"

Will shook his head, interrupting with an abrupt wave of his hand. "The Rebels don't have _Chameleon_," his Second-in-Command declared. "Nobody has it; it doesn't exist."

Worf drew himself up, looking even more determined than before. "Commander, our short-range sensors picked up -"

"Look, that's got to be wrong, they couldn't have -"

"Sir, I saw the readings myself, I -"

"There's been some kind of mistake -"

"Mistake -?"

"Gentlemen," he said, mildly, interrupting the discussion; the two men paused, turned, and were looking at him. He took a moment to fold his hands behind his back. "Mr. Worf," he said, nodding to his Security Officer, giving him the first word.

"Sir, I believe it was a _Chameleon_ we picked on the sensors. It was a trace, but the sensors interpreted the trace as a _Chameleon._ I checked and double-checked the readings. I don't believe there was a mistake, Sir. That was a _Chameleon_."

Worf's strong tone had emphasized each word. He nodded once, acknowledging what the Security Officer had said, before turning to his First Officer.

Will's eyes were looking their skepticism. "A Federation cloaking system that doesn't exist, Captain?" His Second-in-Command paused, looking at him; allowing time for doubt to sink in. "We all know the technology simply doesn't exist, _never_ existed, beyond the theoretical stage. We tried to develop it, but we couldn't. We could never produce even close to a working model. And after the Agreement with the Romulans were signed, the work on that system was locked up in a vault somewhere, never to be seen again."

"If the Rebels are working with someone from high inside the Federation, they could have gotten _Chameleon_ through their collaborators, Commander," Worf countered.

Will turned, furiously, at this, clenching his fists, blue eyes blazing. "That is pure, scurrilous, tripe," his Second-in-Command snapped. "There's absolutely no proof to support those claims, it would be base treason for anyone in the Federation to aid the Rebellion in the way that you're suggesting."

Worf was looking at him. "Sir, we are right in the middle of the Corridor, and the Rebels are backed by our most powerful enemies, the Romulans."

His First Officer was shaking his head. "And what does any of that prove? All right, look: Even if the Romulans are backing them, even if the Rebels wanted it, even if someone wanted to _give_ it to them from inside the Federation, the fact remains: You can't get hold of a thing that doesn't exist. _Chameleon_ simply doesn't exist."

Worf pointed at the screens, for reply. "Sensors don't lie, Commander."

The other man stopped, as if coming against a hard truth. After a moment, his Second-in-Command was turning to glance briefly over the panels, before turning to look into Worf's eyes. "The raw data was interpreted incorrectly," Will said.

At this, Worf hesitated himself, and then gave an accepting nod. "I am checking into that possibility," his Security Officer conceded, at last. "Look here, Commander." Worf was pointing at the sensor panels. "What do you make of this?"  
Both men turned back to the panels, Worf bending forward and peering intently at the screens, the blue light reflecting over the rugged angles of his Security Chief's face, shining onto the Starfleet uniform and the Klingon sash worn equally proudly, and with honor, distinguishing both. Hundreds of years of battle experience were patterned into that Klingon DNA, he well knew; disregarding Worf's opinion and advice would be at a very great peril to his ship, and not a mistake he was prone to make.

His Second-in-Command leaned forward next to the other man, studying the screens; neither could he disregard Will's counsel. The younger man was his most skilled officer; he considered, the ideal Federation officer. Old and new were perfectly combined in Commander William Riker: Trained in military strategy, as fluently practiced in diplomacy as he was instinctive and brilliant in battlefield tactics, highly proficient in weapons, he was also, like sailors since time immemorial, a courageous adventurer and fighting man. Like himself, Will had disciplined himself into using his head before his fists, but the will and the desire, the fire to fight when necessary, was always there, banked but ready when called upon. It was this combination of qualities that inspired others to follow him without question. If ever there was a natural leader of men, William Thomas Riker was genuinely that: A born Captain.

Leaving the other men to study the screens, he was turning, taking a few steps away.

He had never forgotten the first time he'd taken the bridge of his first ship, the _Stargazer_; it had been an emergency situation, his Captain killed, and he had been forced to step in and assume command of the ship. The faces of his crew had turned readily toward him, accepting him in unquestioning faith as their Captain, expecting him to lead them, and to bring them safely home. Later, when Star Fleet had formally elevated him to Captain and given him a ship of his own, he had accepted that command, and all subsequent commands, fully and freely, without any reservations. But the cloak of leadership had never lain lightly on his shoulders, as it seemed to do with others he had seen; like Will. And yet he had been chosen, nay, sought, to be raised above his brethren, convinced not by any rightness of purpose, nor of himself as a better person intrinsically than others, but in his skills, skills that perforce set him always at the head of the line, and from there, to lead. Partly, he knew, it was his Gallic ancestry that caused him to at once desire and embrace, and yet suspect and resist, question and at times, yes, even doubt, his role as leader. After all, he came from a tradition that had produced Kings and yet had fervently come to believe in and espouse the principle of equality among men, a belief as firmly entrenched in his character as any other of his deeply held values; it was this dichotomy, this dissonance in his nature, that he struggled with, almost daily. Still, there had never been a time when he'd rather have been back home with his brother Robert in the vineyards at Provence, running the winery their parents had left to them both. Perhaps someday, under circumstances he couldn't now imagine, he'd return to Earth, and to the good, simple life of a country farmer. Right now, he was here, and he was Captain of this ship, responsible for his people, his ship, and in tight extension, the Federation, those planets under the Federation flag, and the people on those planets.

"All right," he said, turning back to his officers; they stopped what they were doing, looking up at him. "Mr. Worf, have Mr. Data assist you in the analysis of the sensor readings; report as soon as it's completed. Number One, a moment of your time." His First Officer was stepping aside with him. "Will, I was supposed to attend a private dinner on Selasdana tonight." He shrugged, after a moment. "It can't be helped. You'll have to go in my place."

The younger man looked with some surprise at him. "Captain, I think I should stay here with the ship. If Worf is right, if that was a _Chameleon_ -"

He shook his head, interrupting the other man. "We'll find out whether or not it was in due course, but it will undoubtedly take some time and effort before Worf and Data can give us a definitive answer." He held up his hand, forestalling his friend's reply. "I understand you, Will, and if it were anyone else ... But it's an invitation from the Rhaenns, you see." The other man's eyes widened, as if suddenly comprehending his dilemma. "I can't go, and it would be a terrible insult to send a lower-ranking officer, and even worse manners not to go at all, with so little basis at the moment to refuse them on." He paused, a pang stinging hot in his chest; he was missing an opportunity he'd not soon have again, if ever. "Tell the Rhaenns I deeply regret not being able to keep my commitment, but that I hope to see them during our tour of the Outpost." He smiled at his friend, and didn't try to disguise his envy. "Oblige me, Will. Have dinner with the Rhaenns. You won't be sorry, you know."

The other man nodded once, acquiescing. "Very well, Sir."

He looked up into his First Officer's eyes. "Let's keep our fingers crossed, Number One, that nothing from this end interferes with the pleasure of your evening."

The other man's eyes changed, and he nodded again, this time with a much better grace. "I'll give the Rhaenns your message, Captain."

[* * *]

He ordered dinner in his quarters. Roast beef, Yorkshire pudding, gravy, hot fresh bread and butter; comfort food.

The communicator hailed softly. "Helm to Captain."

He turned from the replicator. "This is the Captain."

"Transport ship hailing us, Sir. The Captain-Pilot of the transport reports four crew and one passenger, and our scanners confirm their report. Transport has limited shields, limited weapons. Outpost signals transport expected. The _Intrepid_ is escorting her."

The _Intrepid_ was one of the patrol ships stationed especially in the Corridor to escort ships safely through the territory. It all seemed routine enough. If the arrival were anywhere but the Corridor ... but even in the Corridor, a transport might still be just a transport. "All right, let them pass."

He turned back to the dispenser and took his plate, bringing it over to the table. What, he wondered, would the Rhaenns have prepared for their guest tonight? It had been less than an hour since the Commander had left the ship, they probably hadn't even sat down to table yet. Of one thing he had no doubt, and that was that his First Officer would make a good impression on the Rhaenns. Smart in his dress uniform, polished and gallant, Will Riker would be charming company for the next few hours, before coming back to the _Enterprise_, as he always did, eager to face the next challenge that lay ahead. He had often thought that, though they were very different men with different interests and habits, yet like him, Will's life was centered here, on this ship, the younger man wholly engaged in his role as Second in Command of the Star Ship _Enterprise_, all else subjugated to that consuming purpose.

He was lifting the first forkful to his mouth - The communicator signaled.

"Commander Data to the Captain."

He set his fork down gently before replying. "What is it, Mr. Data?"

"Captain, I have the results from the sensor analysis you requested."

"Go ahead," he said, biting back his impatience; fears disguised, no doubt, at what he was about to hear.

"I concur with Mr. Worf's identification, Sir. The sensors correctly identified a ship outfitted with the Federation cloaking system known as _Chameleon_."

He'd known; and still the realization of what they were now confronting hit him hard and square: His appetite vanished instantly, replaced by a solid weight at the center of his chest. He plucked the napkin from his lap, standing from the table and picking up his plate, carrying it over to the disposal. "Have you found the source?"

"No, Sir."

"All right. Keep looking. And keep me informed. Picard out."

Disposing of the food, he ordered a cup of Earl Grey, strong, black, boiling hot. He took the cup back with him to his desk, sinking down into the chair. For a brief moment, he considered calling his First Officer back to the ship. No: They weren't in any immediate danger. Let Will have his evening. Time enough for whatever lay ahead.

He lifted the cup to his mouth, the boiling liquid just below his lips.

_Chameleon._ Well, this was an unexpected twist in their mission. They were supposed to find a ship with a cloaking system that had been designed not to be found, and that wasn't supposed to exist. Speaking merely practically, how the hell were they supposed to find that ship?

He was about to sip from his cup, stopped:

_How the hell had they found it in the first place?_


	6. PT ONE, Ch 5 -- The Ring

5. The Ring

Picard's first thoughts upon waking were of the _Chameleon._ _Chameleon_: The name struck him suddenly as utterly absurd. The name of a harmless little Terran lizard pinned onto something so enormously frightening.

His Second in Command had been wrong, and yet he was also right. Will Riker had said the readings made no sense, and they didn't, they couldn't, not logically: How could the sensors pick up a Federation cloaking system that didn't exist? Logical or not, there the _Chameleon_ was, or had been, on the sensors, hours before -

The communicator chirped an incoming message, interrupting his thoughts.

"Beverly Crusher to Jean-Luc Picard."

He quickly sat up in bed, looking at the clock: It was still early, she wasn't due for almost another hour. "Yes, Beverly, I was expecting you shortly."

"I won't be joining you this morning after all. I've got two emergency fractures to attend to, and I have to check on Harrison's wife, she might be going into premature labor. Sorry, you'll have to give me a rain check."

"Not at all, I can wait until you're through."

"Yes, and I know how much you love waiting around." He could almost hear her smiling. "No, I'm not sure how long I'm going to be delayed. Just go ahead without me. Beverly out."

So that was that. On the mornings Beverly came to his quarters for breakfast, he ate a more leisurely meal, but since she wasn't joining him, he would follow his own inclination, and that was to get on with the day. Though he had come to enjoy Beverly's company in the mornings, he had to admit she was right, he wouldn't have enjoyed sitting around and waiting for her, not when he had things to do; another example of how well she knew him. He nibbled at a croissant and some fruit, quickly drank his tea, then left his quarters afterwards at a brisk clip.

He was entering the bridge; Worf looked up. "Captain, the Captain-Pilot of the transport ship signals he's leaving. The _Intrepid_ signals they are ready to depart as well."

"Very well. Advise them to be on the highest alert, and send them on their way. What of the _Chameleon_, Mr. Worf?"

"Whereabouts unknown, Sir."

"All right. Inform Selasdana Outpost that we will transport down shortly for our tour." There were a lot of outposts to visit; the Rhaenns' importance to the Federation had brought them to Selasdana first, but prestige's demands being satisfied, once they had fulfilled their obligations here, they would move on; he couldn't waste time, not with the possibility of a _Chameleon_ hovering about.

He started down the ramp; the chairs to the left and right of his were empty. He settled into his seat, glancing over at the empty chair on his right. Although his Second-in-Command wasn't yet due on the bridge, it was somewhat surprising not to see him here already, especially knowing the situation with the _Chameleon_. And, he admitted to himself, he was very interested to hear about Will's evening with the Rhaenns. Well, his curiosity would have to wait a while longer to be satisfied.

And the woman who should have been at his left side, Counselor Deanna Troi, was on a sensitive Federation diplomatic mission. He tugged his tunic sharply down.

If Deanna had been on board, she might have picked up on his funk last evening; Deanna's abilities as Ship's Counselor were not underestimated by him. He would have preferred to have Deanna on board when they entered the Corridor, of course, and as she had said, he could have kept her from leaving the ship; she had offered to stay, her sense of dedication not surprising, but without influencing his decision in the end. The Balthuzans had insisted on having her, which meant that if he didn't let Deanna go, they might have taken it into their heads to come to the _Enterprise_ instead, a situation he didn't need to have added on top of what he was already facing. He had chosen the lesser of two evils, relinquished Deanna, and she wisely had said nothing more about it when he had insisted that she leave as planned.

In any case, the previous days' mood was past. He knew better than to waste time and energy fretting over what he couldn't change. He had no control over the situation in the Corridor, no control over the way the Federation was handling the Rebellion. The Federation formulated policy, starship captains carried it out, and 'twas always thus. Let the Federation do their job, he would do his. The universe was brimful of injustice, he would go very quickly mad if he began to dwell on all its ills. He did what he could as well as he could to fix what he could, within the parameters of the Prime Directive, and be satisfied with that.

At the moment, he could allow himself to look forward to the visit at Selasdana, and renewing his acquaintance with the Rhaenns, however briefly -

"Captain, we're receiving a distress signal," Worf called out suddenly, breaking into his thoughts. "Subspace signal - breaking up - Gone, Sir."

He had turned in his chair, looking up. "Where did the signal come from, Mr. Worf?"

Worf shook his head, eyebrows drawn together, as he studied his panels. "Tracing it now, Sir."

"Get Commander Riker in here, Mr. Data," he ordered, turning next to his helmsman. "Mr. Meyer, prepare to set a course. Well, Mr. Worf?"

The Security Chief's dark eyes looked up at him. "From Ariana Outpost."

At the far end of the Corridor. "Helmsman, set a course to Ariana, warp nine."

"Waiting for Commander Riker to board, Captain," Data said, interrupting him.

"Course set, speed set, Captain," the helmsman called out.

He was rising from his chair. "Do you have any information on the attack yet, Mr. Worf?"

"Coming in now, Sir," came the reply from his Security Chief. "Raided. Everything of value taken. Casualties. They report -" Worf looked up. "Captain, they've been attacked by Rebels."

He nodded, acknowledging the information. "Inform Selasdana of the attack, advise them we are leaving, and warn them to be on the highest alert."

"Commander Riker boarding, Sir."

His poised finger came down. "Engage," he said, the stars flashing on screen as the engines warped. "You have the helm, Mr. Data," he said, as he was leaving the room, walking quickly to the Transporter Room.

Will Riker was stepping down from the platform just as he walked in, fastening his jacket. "Reporting, Captain," his Second-in-Command said.

"Ariana's been attacked, we're going there now," he said, as they started back to the bridge. "And Will: Data and Worf re-analyzed the data from the sensors readings. There was no mistake. That was a _Chameleon_ on the sensors last night."

The eyes looking into his widened, blazing in surprise. "Just how in the hell -? Well, never mind that, now. Think this attack is connected to that sighting?"

"Or to do with us?" He looked at his Second in Command. "What is there on Ariana that they could possibly want, Number One?"

Will was shaking his head. "Nothing so far as I know; they're a Transfer Station."

They were entering the bridge, his Second-in-Command stepping quickly over to Worf's side, scanning the sensor panels for himself. "Anything on our screens?"

"Yes, Sir," the Security Chief replied. "Long-range sensors show a cruiser heading away from us, toward the Neutral Zone at warp six."

He was walking down the ramp. "What's our E.T.A. at Ariana, Mr. Data?"

"Maintaining our current course and speed, thirty-eight point seven minutes, Sir," came the reply. "The cruiser will reach the Neutral Zone in one hour, ten point three minutes at its current speed."

His Second in Command taking his customary place by his right side, Will nodded, turning to look at him. "Logical guess is Rebels, Captain."

"Ariana's reporting Rebels," he agreed. "All right," he said. "Let's find out what happened at Ariana, give them whatever of our assistance is needed. Helmsman, track the cruiser, plot an intercept course."

Will was watching the stars falling away on the viewscreen in silence; it was a deep silence, as if the other man was contemplating something important, and for a moment, he felt as if he shouldn't disturb his friend's thoughts. He returned to his seat, Will joining him after a moment. "Mr. Data, isn't Ariana a Transfer Station?"

Data turned slightly in his chair. "Yes, Sir. There is a small support colony -"

"Captain," Worf interrupted. "Ariana's Governor is hailing us."

"On screen, Mr. Worf," he said, coming to his feet, Will standing with him.

On the viewscreen in front of them, the rolling serenity of space changed abruptly to a chaotic scene inside a room with a large Federation insignia on the wall. Sirens were screaming, people were running back and forth, shouting to each other, and there were the heart-wrenching sounds of crying and moaning in the background. A white-haired woman, her aged face pale and grim, was issuing terse instructions to someone at her side, breaking them off to turn to the screen. "Is that the _Enterprise_?" the woman asked, brusquely.

"I am Captain Jean-Luc Picard of the _Enterprise_," he said, to the woman. "We are responding to your distress signal. What is your situation?"

The woman leaned forward, her red-rimmed eyes bulging on the viewscreen. "All of the casualties were Star Fleet personnel routing through here at the Station. Almost all of them are dead, only two survived and that was by the merest of luck. Two, out of ninety men and women. They took away everything of value they could carry besides." The woman was hurriedly barking all of this information out to him; he noted, in passing, that in her urgency, she hadn't bothered to introduce herself. "Are you going after them, Captain?" Her tone and expression were demanding it, more than asking to know.

"We were coming to your assistance, Governor," he replied.

"Assistance?" The woman shook her head abruptly. "Assistance with what? We don't need any more of your assistance, we've had about all of it we can bear. No, Sir, we can bury our own dead. Go after the Rebels, Captain. It's your presence here that's made them do this, it's up to you to make them pay for what they've done."

The scene flicked off, returning the viewscreen to the star-studded blackness of space.

Will was turning to Worf. "Do we have the cruiser on our screens?"

"Yes, Sir, we're tracking them."

"Mr. Data?" his Executive asked, turning to the other officer.

"They are still at warp six, current heading will take their ship into the Neutral Zone, Sir."

He stared out at the stars on the viewscreen. They were released from their obligation at Ariana, for the moment. The Rebel cruiser was on their screens. It seemed so obvious what needed to be done. And yet ...

And yet, here they were, just hours after having arrived in the Corridor, forced to deal directly with a Rebel attack on an outpost. His heart gave a hard twist: Rebels. Not the _Chameleon_. Not even Romulans. He could almost wish for Romulans, strange as that notion was, even to him. The Rebellion was a situation he had hoped desperately to avoid, or at least not make things worse, while they were in the Corridor. Now clearly, they couldn't avoid it.

He nodded, finally. "All right," he said. "Helm, set your intercept course, warp eight."

"Course set, speed set, Sir," came the response.

"Engage. If you detect any increase in the cruiser's speed, go to maximum warp." The stars flashed on the screen for a moment, before settling into their patterns.

His Second-in-Command was looking over at Data. "What's our E.T.A., Mr. Data?"

"At our present speed, we will intercept the cruiser in forty-six point five minutes, well outside of the Neutral Zone boundaries, Sir," Data replied.

Will turned a moment later, looking out at the view screen, as if searching for something there in the star-studded darkness; he again sensed the other man entering into a place deep within himself, and again felt the same reluctance to disturb his young friend's thoughts. Strange: He had worked closely with Will Riker for seven years, knew well the range of his moods and emotions, but was not at all familiar with this frame of mind in his Second in Command.

He quietly stepped back to his chair and seated himself, his gaze wandering down the dress uniform of the young man standing in front of him, conscious that he was purposely allowing his mind to drift away, disengaging from the situation they were headed toward, for the moment, to sort out another situation closer at hand.

The red-and-black gabardine with the gold braiding was suited to Will Riker's tall, muscular frame. He knew his young friend quite well enough to know that a smart uniform wouldn't be needed in any romantic conquest Will cared to carry out, but he did cut a dashing figure in it, which may have played some part in delaying his Second-in-Command's return to the ship; obviously, the urgent call from the ship had rousted Will from wherever it was he had spent the night after leaving the Rhaenns. He had to admit that it had never occurred to him to think that there might be another lady present at the dinner. He tugged at his own plain tunic.

He didn't envy Will's abilities with the fair sex. Romantic involvements meant complications, and wherever and whenever possible he stayed away from complications, preferring his road free and clear, and no ties to keep him looking back. Not that he was a monk. Occasionally he met a lady whose company he enjoyed, depending on the circumstances and the lady, though he was ascetic enough to prefer a cleaner, calmer, way of life than his First Officer, who seemed to like to mix it up, routinely entangling himself with all sorts of strange, intense "types": That wasn't for him. His young friend's inner fires burned far hotter than his own ever had once out of his youthful, hormone-addled years: Frankly, he was glad to be clear of all that biologically-driven drama, while Will clearly thrived on it.

There was definitely something different about his Second-in-Command today, though, he could feel it, more than just sexual gratification, he thought; rather like the settled stillness after a powerful storm. But their expert reader of emotional landscapes, Deanna Troi, wasn't there and he wasn't going to try and guess what it was that had inspired this unfamiliar state of being in his First Officer -

He stopped, stared: Will had crossed in front of him, leaning over to speak to Data, laying his hand on the back of the chair, in plain view. Looking just long enough to be sure of what he was seeing on that hand, before turning quickly, but carefully, away. A moment later, he rose from his seat and said, "I'll meet with my senior officers in five minutes. You have the bridge, Commander," before turning away, or starting to.

Will was straightening and walking toward him. "Captain, I'd like to speak with you."

He stopped. "Is it urgent, Will?" He asked, perhaps a bit too quickly.

The younger man hesitated, shaking his head after a moment's consideration. "No, Sir, not urgent. Important. It can wait."

"All right. We can talk after the meeting," he said, and he was leaving the bridge as he spoke, the door sliding quietly closed behind him. He walked around his desk, sinking into his chair and closing his eyes ...

The Rebels were a settled matter. He would convene with his officers, listen to what they had to say - and then do what had to be done. The moral burden was his, ultimately, and he was prepared to assume it. He knew better than most that the Age of Miracles was over, and he wasn't expecting one now. But first, he would meet with his people and talk; you never knew what might come out of their collective thinking, it wouldn't be the first time they'd found, between them, a creative and workable solution to a seemingly impossible situation.

He ran his hand over his head. _But this thing with Will_ ...

He knew his officers well enough to know that they didn't allow their personal lives to interfere with their work, they were far too professional for that. But this! Will had to know that what he had done was going to cause more than a little trouble, if he wasn't mistaken. There was bound to be a stir in his senior officers' ranks, an upset that might cause him to lose his Ship's Counselor, or his First Officer, or both. And he didn't need to have either of them leaving the _Enterprise_, not at a time like this.

My God! Will could be impetuous, he knew it well enough, although never recklessly so. His First Officer relished the opportunities to lead Away Teams precisely because they were journeys into the unknown, a chance to use his wits, act on instinct, take calculated risks, challenge himself to the utmost and come out ahead. But taking it to this degree, he never would have suspected.

Irritation surged under his skin again at the Balthuzhans. Deanna should be here! No, that wasn't fair, and he knew it; and it was a great deal due to his own abhorrence at intruding into other's personal affairs that made him reluctant to deal with this situation, he had to admit that in fairness as well. And, perhaps, Deanna wasn't the right person to - Deanna Troi was in love with Will Riker, he had always known it, although he hadn't wanted to face the fact until forced to at this moment. It wasn't his business, _hadn't_ been his business, until now.

But now, it couldn't be helped. He would have to find out what was going on, talk to Will about how his new situation would affect the ship, which had to be his primary concern. And then, when Deanna came back, well, the two of them would have to work something out - or not.

But wait! This was really jumping the gun on his part, had to be!

Will wasn't _married_! He couldn't have gone to dinner the night before, and come back married the next morning! Preposterous! How? Where? To whom?

But he was certain of what he had seen earlier: Will's hand resting on the back of Data's chair had given him an unobstructed view of the golden band on the ring finger of his left hand.

A wedding ring!


	7. PT ONE, Ch 6 -- The Scientists' Daughter

Author's Note: For purposes of this story, I created a back story for Riker. I originally wrote this story in the second or third year of ST: TNG. Back then, not a lot had been established about his life, so I felt free to embellish details in here, which may not be accurate as of later iterations.

6. The Scientist's Daughter

Commander Will Riker, Executive Officer of the U.S.S. _Enterprise_, materialized into a room the likes of which he'd never seen before. The walls, ceiling and floor were composed of a crystalline material of some sort, like glass, a soothing whiteness beyond creating a peaceful sensation almost of being suspended in space or water; brilliant blue underlighting was beginning to glow through the surface beneath his feet with the intensity of liquid fire. Somewhere a flute was playing a delicate Oriental-sounding passage, and there was the unmistakable scent of Remadaian flowers in the air; altogether, the effect was more than pleasing: Stimulating.

A door was sliding open at the far side of the receiving room: Dr. Eric Rhaenn entered and was walking toward him, the intense blue light shining on the tip of the renowned scientist's bulbous nose, glowing on his balding head, and along the folds of the white robe that sparkled like kiridium on the scientist's plump body.

He stepped forward and held out his hand, noticing the gold braiding on his dress uniform sleeve gleaming vivid blue along the edges. "Dr. Rhaenn, it's a very great honor to meet you. I'm Commander William Riker."

The scientist's brown eyes smiled up into his as they shook hands. The brilliance of the mind shining out from behind that friendly, curious gaze. Remarkable -

_It's like looking into Einstein's eyes._

The scientist's smile widened, head tipping slightly to one side. "Indeed: Commander Riker, it is my honor to welcome you to my home. Please come in."

"Thank you. Captain Picard sends his regrets, to you ... and your ... wife ..." he said; his voice drifted off as his attention strayed.

The blue lighting had spread and moved languidly up the walls as he had walked across the room, transfixing him; strange, but he thought he could actually feel the color intensifying, coursing through his body in a slow, sensual flow. A pleasant, almost erotic, sensation was curving up his spine, sparkling out over his body. Rhaenn was speaking to him; he drew his eyes back to his host with a bit of effort, just hearing the question.

"How is the Captain?"

He gathered his thoughts enough to answer. "Very well, thank you. Disappointed that he couldn't be here himself tonight. The Captain asked me to say that he looks forward to seeing you and your wife during his official visit tomorrow."

The scientist turned, and he was following, through a door and out into a wide corridor, glass-white like the room they had just left. "My wife and I met your Captain at the Admiral's Dinner. Of course, he must have told you. We were both quite taken with Jean-Luc Picard. Very impressed."

"Yes, he mentioned the dinner." Quite an encounter, from the Captain's telling: Not much he could do to top that particular evening. He would try his best not to be a poor second tonight, make the time together pass as pleasantly, if not as memorably, as that earlier meeting.

His host smiled, a shade wiser. "We don't entertain very often, Commander, so isolated as we are out here. Perhaps _we_ will bore _you_."

"I hardly think that's possible, Dr. Rheann," he said. "I've read your books, and most of your wife's articles. I consider myself extremely fortunate to have the chance to discuss your work ... with you both ..."

He stopped speaking. The corridor was suddenly alight, a spill of silver pouring down from above, flowing over the ceiling and down the walls like music, like notes from that incredible flute he could hear playing, ringing clear and sweet in his ears, the color spilling pleasurably into his own body, silver flecks sparkling in his veins ...

"You must meet a lot of scientists in your travels with the _Enterprise_, Commander."

From far away he heard Rhaenn's voice. "Mmm?" He had to force himself to tear his eyes away from the river of pulsing silver. "Yes ... yes, quite a few ... Excuse me, Doctor, but you have an extraordinary house," he blurted out, then, unable to contain himself any longer. "I've never seen anything like it."

The scientist cast a measuring eye up. "No, I suppose not. My wife and I built the thing as an experiment, a little side hobby. Simple, really: Sensors measure brain chemistry through the retina and trigger patterns in the colors you see, stimulating the brain to release certain mood-altering chemicals; endorphins, for instance."

"Ah," he murmured, smiling to himself at the mind that would call such an invention "simple." "Producing a natural high."

"A little more than that, but yes, basically. The system reacts to give you what it thinks you need; but it isn't perfect."

He almost didn't hear the last, mesmerized by the silver river shimmering down the walls; he could feel silver frothing, sparkling, in the back of his throat, dancing like silverglass stars along the fibres of his body, the sensation of silver spreading through his system like a million tiny bells trilling at just the right pitch.

"Feels wonderful," he murmured. "What's wrong with it?"  
The scientist waved his hand. "Oh, it's always tampering with you, always working to adjust your mood upwards. When you feel like sulking, say, it won't let you." Rhaenn turned to look at him, tilting his head a bit to the side. "Interesting to see how people react to it."

"Don't judge by me, Doctor," he said. "I'm feeling a little off my feet, frankly."

"Actually, at the dosages you've been getting, most people would be flat on their backs," the scientist replied, with a nod toward him that suggested a touch of admiration. "Your self-control is quite strong, Commander, no doubt it'd be difficult to drink you under the table."

They were entering into a larger space, glass-white like the others. In the center of the room was a shining white circle, long sheer curtains floating in a low sparkling mist around the perimeter. Inside the curtains was a crystalline table and four chairs, a thin glass vase holding one long-stemmed Remadaian flower in the center of the table, its distinctive fragrance filling the air.

"My wife will be along in a moment. Our daughter's just arrived from school, T'Prianne's gone to see about her. Anna will be joining us later. Something to drink?" Rhaenn waved to a counter where rows of glistening bottles stood alongside shapely glasses. "Ah, here she is. This is my wife, Commander."

A tall, slender woman was coming into the room, dressed in the same type of shining robe as her husband, but to a much different effect. T'Prianne Rhaenn was at least partly Vulcan, judging, besides the name, by the strong, fines bones of her face and the slightly upcurved ears. But her beautiful eyes were violet, surrounded by lush, black lashes; in this quadrant, he'd only heard of that iris color in Noonians, and he was startled that he'd not known this about the famous scientist. He wished now that he'd taken the time to look at their bio-data before leaving the ship. It occurred to him that, famous as she was, he couldn't recall ever having seen a picture of her -

A burst of golden color bloomed under his feet like flowers opening suddenly, a field of bright gold, sweeping up the walls of the room, and he felt the color like sweet honey being drawn up into his body, through his palms and the soles of his feet, coating his lungs like a fine golden powder as he breathed in and out, rushing through his veins like some luscious narcotic sugar ...

He managed at last to drag his eyes away from the hypnotic color. T'Prianne Rhaenn was standing in front of him; and if those violet eyes did mean she was Noonian, very likely she was effortlessly reading his mind along with his state of being. Which at the moment was very wonderful. And T'Prianne Rhaenn was very, very lovely indeed, her clothing and skin glowing golden; he remembered the Captain telling him how beautiful she was. His mind opened suddenly to the pleasure of the evening ahead, and he smiled happily at the lady standing before him. "Doctor Rhaenn."

She held her slender hand out to him. "Commander Riker, welcome to our home."

He bowed slightly to her and took her hand; it was slim and cool against his palm. "I'm honored, Dr. Rhaenn, thank you for having me." Almost expecting the words to float out of his mouth in golden clouds, so strong was his feeling of being bodily infused with the color.

"I apologize for not having been in time to greet you, Commander," she said. "Our daughter's just arrived from Vulcan, as I'm sure my husband has told you; she will be joining us later. Can we offer you something to drink?" She gestured over to the table. "Or shall we go straight into dinner?"

He looked at the table, at T'Prianne Rhaenn. "Just as you like, Doctor," he said.

She nodded, the corners of her mouth suggesting she was pleased by his answer, and started toward the table. "We'll go in to dinner, then, as if we were quite _en famille_. I hope you like wine, Commander, my husband has several very good ones he wants to share with you tonight. We've been saving them for a special occasion."

That last reminding him that he wasn't the guest they'd been expecting. "The Captain was very sorry he couldn't come himself, Dr. Rhaenn, but he couldn't leave the ship."

"How is the Captain? And, please: There are two Dr. Rhaenns here. You may call me T'Prianne," she said, waving her hand as they approached the table; the gauzy curtains parted gracefully, revealing the sparkling glass table exquisitely set.

Rhaenn gestured him toward the table. "Just as soon you called me Eric," the scientist said, affably.

He moved to T'Prianne Rhaenn's side, handing the lady into her seat, before crossing to the chair opposite. "If you'll both call me Will. He's fine, Doctor - T'Prianne. I mentioned to your husband that the Captain is looking forward to seeing you tomorrow on his tour here."

T'Prianne nodded the gentlemen into their seats. "Will. Is it William, then?" she asked.

"Well, everyone calls me Will, but yes, William Thomas Riker," he replied, settling into his chair; the back of his mind somewhere took passing notice that both mentions of the Captain's visit had elicited only polite responses. Though they didn't show it, perhaps they were feeling snubbed by their invited guest; better to drop the subject, in any case. He was feeling too good to object to anything; he would not even mind if they insisted on calling him William.

"William Thomas Riker," Rhaenn repeated, as he was opening a bottle of wine. "Your people are from Earth, then? You're Terran?"

"Yes, Terran. Alaska, in the Northern Territories, on my mother's side."

Rhaenn had stopped pouring the wine to attend. "I had family there. Where in Alaska?"

"Near the Denali Reserve. The land's been in my mother's family for centuries, since long before the Federation. My uncle still lives down there on the place."

Rhaenn nodded. "Ah. And your father's people? Terran, too?"

"The original settlers on Mars Colony Ten."

The scientist's eyes lit up. "Ah, yes, the Successful Tenth! You're from strong stock, then, William." Rhaenn nodded. "And so you left Alaska and went off to the Academy. In search of adventure yourself, I take it?"

He smiled. "Yes, that's partly right. And I had relatives in military service as far back as the Civil War. It runs in the family, I guess you could say."

"Ah, yes, I see." The scientist nodded again. "How did they meet, your parents? Was your mother also in the ranks?"

"My mother was the daughter of a diplomat." He paused, his eyes running over the fine things, placed precisely on the sparkling table. "This is lovely, T'Prianne."

She acknowledged his compliment with a graceful nod, gave her husband a reminding look. Rhaenn finished pouring the wine, returned his glass. But neither spoke, and he realized after a moment that they were waiting for him to continue with what he was saying.

"How did my parents meet," he said, picking up the thread of the conversation. "My grandmother used to tell me the story when I was young, let's see how well I remember it. My mother was attending an embassy party with her parents, and my father was there, he was a senior aide to the Council President at the time. My grandma used to show me pictures of my father, she told me how handsome he was, how dashing, she said that he could charm the birds from the trees. My mother was young when she met my father, just out of private school; at her age, I guess she was impressed enough. In any case, they married a few months after they met, and he went away - and he kept going away," he added, with a small laugh.

"Your parents are divorced?" Rhaenn asked.

"No, I only meant that my father traveled a lot; he's in the Foreign Service. My mother died years ago, when I was very young."

"I'm very sorry to hear." The scientist paused. "Did your father remarry?"

"No, he never did."

"Oh, then, your parents were happy together."

His parents' happiness. His mind shrank away from the question, as if it were a probe exploring a sensitive nerve. Lifting his glass, he sniffed, then tasted the wine; superb. "This is very good." He drank a bit more: Excellent. "It isn't Warwick?"

The scientist nodded. "You are a connoisseur; yes, exactly, Warwick. A good year, I think. The year our daughter was born."

He sipped the delicious wine. Only a hundred bottles of Warwick a year were produced, offered to a private and very select client list. He'd tasted it only once before, at the signing of the Saroyan III Inclusionaries, but he'd never forgotten it: No one who had been privileged to taste Warwick ever forgot the experience.

T'Prianne leaned slightly forward, her violet eyes meeting his. "You will forgive our personal questions, William," she said. "We are scientists, you know. It's in our nature to be inquisitive."

"Not at all," he replied, politely, to the lady. He set his glass down, recalling their query. "I just - I don't know exactly what to say. My parents happy together? I guess you'd have to define happiness first. I didn't mean that the way it sounded," he said, quickly, interrupting himself. "I meant that my parents were two very different people, with different views of happiness. My father always liked to be going, and doing, big things, he liked making things happen; on Earth, they used to call those type of people 'movers and shakers,' and that's him in a nutshell. He wasn't made for the sit-at-home kind of life. Staying in one place for long, reading by the fire with a dog at his feet was just unimaginable to him." He laughed at the image: Not his father. A little servo-robot was coming into the room, a soup tureen on her tray; neither of the scientists turned away from him. "And my mother - Well, she was raised in the country. When she wasn't at the embassy with her parents, my mother was in private schools. That was the kind of life she was used to, quiet, peaceful; exactly the opposite of my father's way of living. According to the stories, my mother went on one tour with my father, and he came home with her for my birth. And that was that. My father came home sometimes to see his family, and my mother stayed on the estate, until she died."

Rhaenn reached for the bottle and refilled his glass; he glanced at the date and calculated: If what Rhaenn had said about their daughter's birthdate coinciding with the age of the wine was true, then she was young in human terms, not even at the Vulcan Age of Third Commitment. Was the girl as strikingly beautiful as her mother, brilliant as her parents? If so, and added to the Rhaenns' prestige, there would surely be no end of suitors for her hand, if she had not already been promised to someone, as was the case in most prominent Vulcan families. Although, out here ... Well, perhaps she'd meet somebody at school, or in her travels. There were plenty of young men at the Outpost, of course, but he doubted if her parents would want that kind of a life for their daughter, married to a Star Fleet officer, moving from ship to ship, Outpost to Outpost, always on the go, never settled anywhere. Or settled somewhere, and left behind, alone, like his mother ... Funny how he was thinking about all this now ...

The scientist nodded. "Your mother would have preferred her husband closer to home, and to her," Rhaenn said, the extraordinary eyes reflecting their understanding; an understanding greater than his, no doubt; he had never cared to think too deeply about it. The subject was too painful, where his mother was concerned. And himself; he never could get over the feeling that he had been a severe disappointment to his father, though some years ago he had been forced to come to an understanding of sorts with the old man.

He thought for a moment. "From what I heard growing up, my mother never criticized my father, never said a word against him, never complained." He paused: Remembering himself as a very small child, standing silently by his mother's side at the front window, looking down the empty path. "I'm sure there were times when she was lonely. But there was no one else for her, ever. According to all family accounts, until the day she died, my mother simply adored my father, was absolutely devoted to him. And my father loved her, too. But he just couldn't stand being confined. Or maybe he was afraid of it, I never understood exactly, or tried very hard to, I admit, at least when I was young. I suppose he loved my mother, but being stuck in one spot didn't suit him."

After a moment, Rhaenn turned to the servo-robot and lifted the soup tureen from the tray; the little maid turned prettily and started away, out of the room.

"That's an interesting description of marriage," the scientist said, lifting the lid from the tureen and dipping in the ladle, pausing to look at him. "Confinement of that sort is something you've avoided as well. You don't believe being stuck in one spot would suit you, either. You're very much in your father's mold, aren't you?"

Rhaenn began deftly ladling out the soup; the aroma was incredibly savory. His stomach rumbled: He realized suddenly how hungry he was, as if he hadn't eaten in days.

"When I was younger I couldn't stand to think that I was in any way like my father," he said, with a smile. "Maybe you're right. But, as a matter of fact, none of the senior staff on the _Enterprise_ are married. Our situation isn't exactly conducive toward it: We're never in one place for very long, for one thing. I suppose it's natural that, for people in Star Fleet, over time, your thinking in that area gets more and more geared away from the long-term and toward the short-term, which tends to lead into certain types of relationships that you know aren't going to be permanent." He laughed after a moment, consciously. "I'm afraid that was a little too honest."

Rhaenn shook his head, handing over the bowl filled with soup. "Not at all. I don't doubt you've enjoyed being single, William, there's no crime in that."

"I wouldn't put it that way, exactly," he replied. "I didn't plan it that way, and I'd have to say that always being on my own was not my expectation or my preference, but that's just the way it's turned out to be. There've definitely been times when I haven't liked being settled, or without a permanent partner in my life."

"Even so, you must have had your opportunities to marry, and chosen not to take them."

He looked up, his spoon poised. "Opportunities?" He took a bit of the soup on his spoon, tasted it. Oh, it was incredibly good! He couldn't remember having any better, ever. He put his spoon down, reluctantly, lifting his napkin to his mouth, replacing it in his lap before answering. "I can't say that there've been any of those sorts of opportunities, if I understand you correctly. It sounds cliché, I know, but ... The truth is, I haven't met the right woman yet, and I don't know if I ever will. Not that _she'd_ be getting such a prize, don't get me wrong," he said, laughing.

Rhaenn shook his head. "No. It's no good being modest, William. You know your worth. You're a young, handsome man, a top officer on the premier starship in the Federation fleet. And you wouldn't be in your position if you weren't intelligent, responsible, resourceful, brave. You've traveled, you've seen and met, I dare say, hundreds of women in your travels. Surely among them, there've been more than a few who would've been eager to have you for a husband. But you've held out for, as you've said, the right woman."

_Deanna_: His thoughts turned immediately to her. Had she been the right one? Though he had been deeply committed to her and truly loved her, he had realized later, years after their breakup, that although they had agreed to marry, he had only convinced himself that he was ready. But, right before they were to meet on Risa where the ceremony was to take place, he had gotten his orders to report to the _Potemkin_. Deanna could have tried to track him down, she could have made him go through with the commitment. He had found out later that though she had been deeply hurt at the time, she had also been wise enough not to follow him, force him into a marriage she believed he had purposely avoided; and perhaps subconsciously, he had. In any case, since then, he hadn't come close to asking another woman. He never even thought about it anymore, had just accepted that he was alone sometimes, sometimes he wasn't. There'd been times when he had felt lonely, had yearned to meet someone to share himself with, the entirety of himself, life, heart, body, soul, times he had envied the men on board who went home to wives and children at the end of the day. But none of the women he'd ever met were his wife, he was certain he would have recognized her if he'd met her. Women were charming, pleasant company, sometimes a transitory pleasure, sometimes a little more than that. But to this point, nothing more permanent than that.

The little servo-robot was coming back into the room with a platter. He looked up: Both the Rhaenns were looking intently at him. Eric Rhaenn was nodding. "Have you been with the _Enterprise_ long, William?"

"Seven years," he replied, taking another sip of his wine; sensing that the earlier subject was closed, as if they were satisfied on that point and had no more need to discuss it.

"Seven years," the scientist murmured. "That's quite a long tour, isn't it?"

He understood the underlying question: Why no promotion? "By choice. I've been offered a few commands, my own ships, but I've turned them down. The _Enterprise_ is home. I haven't seen anything yet to tempt me away, nothing to equal her. I've been very lucky, and appreciative of my luck."

"But you don't stay just because it's a good berth," the scientist parried smoothly.

"A lot of reasons combined. The _Enterprise_ is a superb ship, there's that. We couldn't carry out our mission without her. And the mission's been better than anything I could've asked for. It's like the old exploring ships, traveling to the ends of the ends of what's known. We've seen incredible sights, there've been unbelievable experiences, enough to fill an entire lifetime in just that short span of years. Of course, the entire crew's top-notch, absolutely the best. And we've been in some very tight spots and stuck together, so there's a trust factor there that's invaluable to what we do. We work well together, we support each other, and we like and respect each other. I couldn't begin to name all of the friends I've made on that ship." He almost mentioned the Captain again before remembering their earlier coldness to his name; his chance to learn at the Master's side for as long as he could was invaluable, he personally knew of dozens of officers who would have given anything for the chance to work with Jean-Luc Picard.

Rhaenn had taken the platter from the servo-robot, replaced it with their bowls. He noticed, then, that they hadn't eaten any soup; and he realized, too, that T'Prianne hadn't spoken in a while, only watched him, observing him while her husband spoke; or more correctly, questioned him. He didn't mind the questions; maybe it was still the effect of the colors, but he was feeling pretty good. And anyway, he had nothing to hide. And he liked these people. And he had a strong feeling they liked him, too.

Rhaenn looked at him. "And your colleagues like you," the scientist said. "And trust and respect you."

"Yes, I know they do," he replied; then, fearing he'd sounded immodest, he leaned forward. "You understand me: It's mutual."

The scientist nodded. "Of course, of course, there's no need to say so, William. You've stayed, because you're loyal to them, and to your ship."

"Loyal? Yes," he said, after a moment's reflection. "Yes, I am loyal."

"You took that from your mother. Loyalty. Loyalty, perhaps, even to a fault," Rhaenn said, watching him, he noticed, very closely.

He was surprised at the description. "Loyal to a fault? You mean has it gotten me in trouble? Well, I don't know." He laughed, wondering if it were true. "Yes, maybe, at times. I don't back out once I'm committed, at any rate."

His thoughts flashed again to Deanna Troi. Yes, he was extremely loyal once he was committed. Had things worked out differently, had he not gotten the orders he did at the time he did, he would have married her, and he would've done everything in his power to make her happy. But when their plans were thwarted, he was relieved, he couldn't deny it. He was glad to be going, off the planet, and back on a ship, going, just going, it didn't matter where: He'd been given back his freedom. When they were thrown unexpectedly together again on the _Enterprise_, it would have been easy as her superior officer to keep Deanna at arm's length, but he'd taken the opportunity to make things right between them, and now they were the best of friends, forever. Yes, he was loyal.

"Even when it's not easy," the scientist was saying, satisfaction evident in the tone, as though Rhaenn was pleased with his answer. The scientist lifted the cover from the platter in front of him, and a delicious aroma wafted into the air. His mouth watered. "That's quite commendable, William."

T'Prianne's eyes were settled on him, also, looking pleased as well, he thought, if he could decipher the slight loosening of the corners of her lovely mouth as pleasure.

On an impulse, he smiled at her. "Well, Doctor, if you're ready, I'd be quite interested in hearing your preliminary conclusions."

She was silent a moment, her beautiful eyes studying him. "Along with all your other attributes, you are astute, William."

"Yes, we have been studying you," Rhaenn agreed. "You should have been a scientist yourself, William, you've got the skills for it. But, no, like your father before you, you have a drive to succeed in the world, which in your case caused you to join Star Fleet. Well, that's all to the good. Prepares you for whatever life brings your way," the scientist murmured, looking suddenly a little somber. "Perhaps -" He raised his eyebrows a bit, leaning slightly forward. "Perhaps you'd like to tell us what you can deduce from our questions."

Surprising him back; he thought for a quick moment. "Well, judging from the questions, I'd guess that you've been interviewing me for a very important personal position. Have you decided? Am I acceptable as a member of the family? Or have I revealed too many character flaws? Perhaps I should disappear now, before dessert and introductions are made. In any case, I doubt if the young lady'd be interested in me," he said. He started to smile as the joke was revealed, but his laughter was dying on his lips - Rhaenn's and T'Prianne's intently gazing eyes killed his mirth, and for a moment there was a dead silence, as Rhaenn turned to look at his wife, and both scientists turned to look again at him. His heart sank: He realized, too late, that his attempt at a bit of humor was nothing more than an extremely poor joke, and at their daughter's expense, no less. How foolish of him, of course, he didn't know anything at all about their daughter, for all he knew she was already married, or a nun, or, or - any number of things. Maybe it was the induced golden glow he'd been in that made him feel there was a mutual understanding, a reciprocal intimacy established by their direct questions and his frank answers, which would allow for a certain friendly informality in his conduct. Stupid of him to think so! Judging from their reactions, he was wrong to have been so forward, and he was forming an embarrassed apology, clearing his throat ...

Lavender suddenly cascaded down the walls; he stopped moving, breathing, losing himself in the flowing river of color. Lavender, shading to a rich blue-violet ... the color of T'Prianne's eyes ... She was looking at him, a trace of warmth around the corners of her beautiful eyes, as if all were forgiven, or no, that wasn't it, exactly: Perfectly understood, with a depth and breadth of understanding he could never hope to reach. To be so well and thoroughly understood and entirely accepted, as though he had achieved a state of perfection just by simply being, something he'd rarely experienced before, made him feel happy, blissfully happy ...

Almost from a distance, he could hear Eric Rhaenn, who was looking over his shoulder, speaking to him; in his state of euphoria, he had to force himself to pay close attention. "Ah, here! William, I'd like you to meet our daughter, Anna Rhaenn. Anna, this is Commander William Riker of the _Enterprise_."

The room was brilliantly violet now, the curtains shimmering and floating, the mist around his feet glowing, the flute was soft and the flowers' exquisite scent enveloping him, as he was standing automatically, turning to greet the scientists' daughter.


	8. PT ONE, Ch 7 -- The Wedding Night

7. The Wedding Night

Riker woke suddenly, an oppressive fear filling his lungs, suffocating him. The room was dark; he started up, struggling a little against panic, to breathe. Instinctively, he called out her name. "Anna!"

She stirred by his side, and was turning to look at him, her violet eyes cool and clear as they looked into his; immediately, the darkness in his mind started to dispel, his chest easing.

"Oh," he said, relieved, and he was turning to her and touching her and pulling her into his arms, his hands sliding over her smooth, warm skin, burying his face in the warmth of her neck and shoulder, sighing deeply. "I thought it was all a dream," he murmured, the remnants of his terror still catching slightly in his throat. "I thought you weren't real, weren't really here with me."

He held her tightly, turning with her in his arms, so that she was laying on top of him, her silken hair sliding down over his chest. The slight, warm heaviness of her against his body, the curves and roundnesses and points of her were wakening his nerve ends wherever they touched him.

And yet, she was silent, so silent, and his earlier fear still so close. His fingers searched her face, touching her lips, his thumb moving like a blind man's along the full, soft mysterious curves. "Speak to me," he urged her. "Say something - my name. Let me hear you say it."

She raised herself slightly above him, her eyes sparkling jewel-like as she looked down into his face, moonlight gleaming along her porcelain shoulders, the outer edge of her cheek, framed by the long, black curtain of her hair.

"You are Commander William Thomas Riker," she said. "First Officer on the Star Ship _Enterprise_."

He smiled, pleased that she would humor him so far. "Is that what you're going to call me?" He laughed, and caressed her hair, his fingers threading tenderly through the long, silken strands. "How about my love, or darling, or just plain Will?"

Her clear eyes stayed on his. "William," she replied.

Her voice caressed the pit of his stomach, stirring warmth there into fire. He turned her gently onto her back, looking into her beautiful eyes, caressing her hair, her face, her shoulder. And she lay quiescent, soft and waiting, opened like a flower for the taking ...

Memory flooded back in a wild, searing flash: He had been too urgent with her the night before. Far too urgent, in a way he'd never known before, desperate, wild, nearly out of his mind, like a man utterly lost to reason; and she, a girl, who had clearly never known a man before! How could he, how could he have been so, so _impatient_? His hand curved down over her back, fingers tangling in her silken hair, pulling the strands almost unconsciously, as if he were trying somehow to restrain his own swelling heart from bursting in his chest. Oh, God, what was this, what were all these feelings washing over him, each acutely exquisite almost to pain, as if the very pith of him were raw and exposed? Layer upon layer upon layer of feeling, of meaning, was peeling back, revealing to him all that he had taken on so easily and naturally last night, love, passion, care, responsibility, commitment, each its own crucial element, all woven intrinsically together, like some mysterious tapestry whose intricate pattern he was trying to discover.

He caressed her cheek, his fingers tender as milk against her skin. "Baby," he crooned softly, looking into her eyes. "Baby, are you all right?"

Her violet eyes joined his, sharing his gaze unashamedly. "We are one, as we were meant to be, William."

He searched her face, anxiously, trying to read the truth there. "Yes, but - Did I hurt you last night?"

Her eyes widened slightly, the violet darkening, deepening, mysterious in their blue-violet fathoms. "We are one, in every way. There is no division between us."

He pulled her close, held her tightly, tightly as he could, constricting his own breathing. Understanding her perfectly; there _was_ no division between them. Whatever she was feeling, he had to feel, all of it. His joy was hers, her pain was his: They were bound together, now, joined beyond anything temporal, into an eternity he hadn't believed existed until now.

Everything he had said at the dinner, everything that had come before last night, seemed so foolish, so stupid and incomplete, meaningless. Now he could see, clearly, how he had been merely existing, how close he had been to just being nothing, _was_ nothing, nothing without her; without knowing it, he had been standing at the edge of the void, and she had pulled him back, she had saved him, really and truly, in a way nothing or no one else could have done. If there weren't her, he wouldn't exist, wouldn't be alive, in any true sense. It was like a miracle, finding her. The glory, the perfect marvel of it! How had it happened, how had he found her? And how had she come to accept him so quickly? In a mere moment: Just like that! It was almost beyond understanding, beyond belief.

"Are you really mine, Anna?" he asked, in awed wonder.

Instantly, he could feel the change in her under his fingers, her skin cooling, spine hardening, and in the same moment he realized his incredible blunder, the enormous stupidity of his words. How could he even question it, how could he even seem to doubt that she belonged to him now?

"Of course, of course, you're mine," he said, answering himself, almost angrily. "And I am yours, always, always, always. Now and forever," he said, repeating the vow he had taken hours earlier.

She was still and silent in his arms; and in that silence, he began to feel the same sense of inutterable loss and anguish, as when he had awakened and thought she hadn't really existed. He stared into the darkness.

_What is this? What's wrong? As long as she's with me, there's nothing can be amiss in the universe._

She stirred, and he realized that he had loosened his grip on her; she was laying quietly beside him. Almost blindly, his hands wandered over her, from her hair, to her shoulder, to her back, and down to her waist, indented so small, supple under his fingers, her light breathing moving her stomach almost imperceptibly.

He raised himself on his elbow and looked down at her. Her eyes, clear and calm, looked into his. He looked at her mouth, her lips, soft, so soft, and waiting ... inviting ...

Fire sparked in his heart, leaped down into his stomach, the back of his knees, the bones in the small of his back, his hips, and in his legs, flesh and bone and desire burned hotly and fused into a consuming purpose. He moved his hand slowly up from her waist, sliding his fingers under the warm curve of her breast, and he looked into her eyes.

"Anna," he whispered, body and soul thrilling toward her, and her lips were parting to receive his kiss. "Oh, Anna, … Anna, … Anna."

[***]

"_Enterprise_ to Commander Riker."

_Data: Trouble. _

He slit his eyes open, into the bright sunlight streaming into the room, and was rolling over and sitting up on the side of the bed automatically, reaching for his tunic and touching the communicator pad. "Riker here," he said, as he was standing, his eyes searching the room for the rest of his scattered clothing, quickly gathering up and pulling on each item as he came across it; there was no time to waste, he knew it without a doubt, could feel it: The _Enterprise_ needed him.

"Immediately to the ship, Commander."

"Right away. Transporter Chief."

"Transporter Chief, aye."

"On my signal, beam me up."

He heard her stirring behind him, sheets rustling softly, as if she were preparing to sit up, and he turned, touching her lightly on the shoulder with his fingers. "Don't move. I have to go," he murmured. He was sliding his jacket on, as he bent to kiss her on the cheek, touching his communicator pad as he straightened. Feeling the familiar scattering of his atoms, he gazed at her, reclining nude on the bed, black hair tumbling over her shoulders; her image was quickly fading. "I'll be back as soon as I can. I love you."

He wondered briefly if she heard him.


	9. PT ONE, Ch 8 -- The Chase

8. The Chase

When Picard entered the briefing room, everyone was in place, including Will Riker, looking more like himself in regular uniform, left hand under the table. Hiding the ring on purpose? Whatever the reason, keeping the ring out of view was a good idea, he didn't want any distractions from the immediate discussion.

He came quickly around to the head of the table, speaking even as he was seating himself. "All right. Not just one, but two, urgent situations have developed. First, the attack on Ariana. Second, last evening, our ship's sensors detected a ship with the cloaking signature of a _Chameleon_."

Beverly looked around the table as if to confirm what he had said, then looked at him, frowning in disbelief. "I know I'm stating the obvious, but _Chameleon_ doesn't exist, so what are we talking about?"

"Commander Data and I did an extensive analysis of the readings, Doctor," Worf replied. "It is certain. A _Chameleon_ came within sensor range of our ship."

A stunned silence fell over the room, which he broke into with his own thoughts. "Clearly, our instant concern is the attack on Ariana." He paused, anxiety uncoiling like a snake inside his chest. "But this_ Chameleon_ sighting is far more troubling. What is a _Chameleon_ doing on our screens? Where did it come from? And what are we going to do about it?" He looked slowly around the table, into each of his officers' eyes, seeing in their faces a matching concern. "Let's review. Mr. Data, will you start? Briefly, what is the _Chameleon_?"

"_Chameleon_ refers to the earliest attempts of the Federation to develop a superior cloaking technology. In simplest terms, the idea was to build a cloaking system that would suppress and alter a ship's molecular appearance to mimic its surroundings, any type of ship, or anything else it chose to, hence the project's nickname. Ultimately, even a theoretical model proved impossible to produce. After the Agreement with the Romulans was signed prohibiting further development of cloaking devices, the Federation ordered all work on _Chameleon_ abandoned."

"What about the Klingons?" Geordi LaForge looked at Worf. "They invented different kinds of cloaking devices. Could they have developed a _Chameleon_ on their own?"

"Nothing as ambitious as _Chameleon_ was ever tried," Worf replied. Shifting in his seat, as if suddenly uncomfortable. "I remember hearing stories about it, this _Chameleon, _when I was among my people. There had been rumors of Federation scientists developing such a device. The system would have been a formidable weapon."

"What about rogues?" LaForge asked. "Could rogue Klingon scientists have developed the system?"

"Or the Romulans." Beverly was looking at Data. "Couldn't they build it?"

"There has been no intelligence to that effect, but it is possible the Romulans may have developed a similar system on their own," Data replied. "However, what we detected on our sensors was the basic imprint of the Federation cloaking system known as _Chameleon_."

"I didn't think about that," Beverly admitted. "How did we know it was ours, Data?"

"At the time the system was being developed, an unknown quantity of Federation ships were secretly outfitted to recognize the _Chameleon_ for use in the early testing phases. It is possible those signatory factors were never removed, and were passed on to all ships built after that time through the software."

"That may have been why we were able to detect it," Worf said. "Whoever is on that ship may not know that we had the ability to pick it up on our scanners."

"That's very possible," LaForge said. "Depending on where they got it and who gave it to them."

"The Big Question: Where did they get it, and who did give it to them?" Beverly looked at him. "Who's on that ship? Rebels? Romulans? Somebody else?"

He shook his head, and was standing from his chair, walking over to the viewport, looking out. "This is no good." He turned back to the others, pointing out of the glass. "Ladies and gentlemen, there is a ship out there with a _Chameleon_ cloaking device on it. Now, it didn't fall out of the clear sky. Somebody built that device, and somebody is using it." Turning to his First Officer. "Commander, let's hear your views."

Will was leaning back in his chair. "Well, we can try coming at this from a strategic point of view," his Second-in-Command said. "Who would be interested in getting their hands on _Chameleon_? The Federation has plenty of enemies, that goes without saying; let's stick to the ones we know about that are based in this quadrant for the sake of simplifying the question. Which of our known enemies have the technological capabilities necessary for developing something like _Chameleon_? I don't believe the Klingons are involved in this, either. We've had a fairly peaceful alliance with them, there'd be no reason for them to develop a cloaking project with technology they would have to steal from us. Even with rogues, it's hard to believe they could hide something like this, we would've gotten wind of it before now. Who else? Not the Rebellion, for a very practical reason; we know the Quarain were never that scientifically advanced. That leaves the Romulans. One, the Romulans would have the capability to fully develop and produce such a system, and two, they could keep their work on a project like this a secret from us. Even accepting those conditions, I see problems with that scenario. Look, the Romulans already have their own cloaking technology, which they no doubt would consider superior to anything we've designed, assuming for the moment they could somehow get their hands on the Federation's work on _Chameleon_, assuming it's determined that's definitely our design we're talking about, and I'm not believing anything like it without absolute proof, I want to make that perfectly clear," he said, firmly, looking around the table. "This is only for the sake of advancing a hypothesis. That being the case, why would they want to bother with any design of ours?"

"Nothing wrong with having another arrow in your quiver," LaForge ventured. "Especially one of your enemy's arrows."

"That would be psychologically very powerful, as Deanna would say if she were here," Beverly said. "Beating us with our own stick, or shooting us with our own arrow, to extend Geordi's metaphor."

Will shrugged, looking unconvinced. "So they're using it against us, just because they have it to use? There's the biggest question, as I see it: To date, the Romulans have been, or at least have seemed, unwilling to confront us directly. Why make themselves known now, this way?"

"Could be our presence in the Corridor's provoked them," Geordi LaForge said.

"Getting their hands on the _Chameleon_ may have made a difference in their strategic thinking, too," Beverly said.

Worf stared fiercely down the length of the table. "This may signal the beginning of a new willingness to engage Star Fleet in battle, Commander."

Will shrugged again; despite that calm exterior, he knew well that his Second-in- Command's mind was working furiously to put the pieces of this puzzle together into a coherent whole. "Even adding all those factors together, it still doesn't feel like a good fit. But, maybe, some other factor or factors ..."

Beverly nodded. "Mm-hmm. Like the Rebellion, say. Something to do with the alliance between the Rebels and the Romulans?"

Will looked at her. "Now we're coming closer to it, I think. Let's go back to our first list: Who'd be interested in getting their hands on _Chameleon_? The Rebellion's on that short list, of course, but not the second list because they don't have the scientific and engineering capacity to develop such a sophisticated technology; even a simple cloaking system would be out of their reach as far as their own capabilities go. Still, we can't ignore the fact that the _Chameleon_ made its appearance here, in the Corridor -" The blue eyes suddenly stared, narrowed. "Yes - Of course, it's that simple. What could be more logical?" Will turned to him. "Captain, suppose you have an enemy who, for whatever reasons, doesn't want to fight you directly? He's gotten hold of one hell of a weapon that he knows would be very powerful against you. Suppose that fellow knows another fellow who is willing to fight, would love to have such a weapon, but doesn't have the ways and means to get it on his own? If these two were already in a limited partnership, say, based on mutual interests ..."

"Yikes!" LaForge said. "I'd say it was time to duck."

"No kidding," Beverly agreed. "You're thinking that the Romulans may have back-staged a deal with the Rebellion for the _Chameleon_."

"It's a possibility," Will said. "Suppose for a moment the Romulans did somehow or other get hold of our blueprints for the _Chameleon_ and finished developing it. The system's of no use to them: But for a guerrilla operation like the Rebels are conducting, ships equipped with _Chameleon_ would be perfect; and even more perfect, because the device isn't Romulan and can't be traced back to them, not yet, anyway, especially if they provide it through several layers of middlemen, arms dealers like, say, the Ferengi, as an extra step, in order to preserve total deniability. Think they'd let the Rebellion have it?"

"Why not?" LaForge said. "At least I can't see a downside to the two of them getting together on this, especially if the Romulans thought they could get away with it. Covertly outfitting the Rebels with _Chameleon_ might be just the thing."

"I have to agree," Beverly said, with a nod. "The Romulans would like nothing better than to destabilize this entire sector, and the Rebels want us out of the Corridor. One hand washes the other."

"The Romulans would use any means to destroy the Federation," Worf added. "But that type of cloaking technology would be highly valuable, Commander, especially if the Ferengi were involved. The Rebellion wouldn't have those kind of resources."

"That may be what ties this all together," Will replied, looking at the Weapons Officer. "The Rebels may have ramped up their raiding activities last year in order to pay for the _Chameleon_, but the increased exposure also left them more vulnerable to detection, and that could be why so many of their ships - why the Rebel fleet's been reduced in numbers. Besides, I'll be willing to bet they got a very special rate from the Romulans, even through dealers. What's a favor to a friend?" His First Officer turned to him. "It's classic guerilla strategy. And nothing we haven't suspected before, Captain. If this is true, and we can prove it, it may be the evidence the Federation's been looking for, not just that the Rebels have been acting as Romulan surrogates, as we've long suspected was the case, but of the Romulans' and Rebels' full collaboration."

"Mm. It is a plausible scenario." He leaned back in his chair. "And a brilliant deduction as well, if true. Congratulations, Commander." He paused, then, as the theory's significance began to sink in. "If the Romulans are really involved in this, and we can prove it, then it means the Rebellion's gone to a whole new, and far more dangerous, level than we had previously suspected." He turned and looked directly into Will's eyes: Schoenhutt. "Just as some had feared would happen." Leaning forward in his chair, to close the subject. "All right, we've another pressing matter at hand, let's move on. We're on an intercept course with the Rebel cruiser that raided Ariana. According to eyewitnesses, the Rebels on board that ship were responsible for the death of eighty-eight Star Fleet personnel stationed at the Outpost there. As you all know, Star Fleet orders are to go after and detain any suspected Rebel ships. And, as you also know, the Rebels have successfully circumvented this policy." He looked around the table. "I presume you all have opinions on the Rebellion. I'm only interested in hearing what you have to say about our current situation."

Worf leaned over the table, his rugged face jutting forward. "Captain, this band of Rebels is directly responsible for the death of eighty-eight of our Star Fleet comrades. We have no choice. We must try and capture them."

LaForge looked across at Worf. "Then more people die." The Chief Engineer said it flatly, shaking his head. "I'm only stating a fact. You know what happens when anyone tries to detain these Rebel ships. What's the complement on their cruiser, Data?"

"I can not provide you with an exact figure, Commander," Data replied.

"What's a good guess?" LaForge patiently asked, re-phrasing the question into less specific terms. "An estimate."

"A crew of between thirty and fifty or more personnel might be needed to operate a ship of that size and type. Our short-range sensors will provide us with the exact number of men on board." Data paused, as if accessing more information; the android equivalent of a hesitation. "Provided we can get close enough to use our scanners."

"Before they incinerate themselves, you mean," LaForge added, into the sudden silence. "An almost-zero-probability 'if,'" he added, saying out loud what they were all thinking.

Will lifted his fingers slightly from the table, in a questioning gesture. "What's the alternative?" His Second-in-Command looked at him. "Let's not kid ourselves. We know what will happen if we try and stop that cruiser. All reports indicate they will not allow themselves to be captured. Our only option would be to let them go."

Again Worf leaned forward, powerful muscles rippling under the Star Fleet uniform, strong, dark hands balled on the table. "We can not let the people who are responsible for the deaths of eighty-eight of our comrades go, Captain," his Security Chief declared, deep voice ringing with conviction. "We can not let these Rebels escape without suffering the consequences of their actions, Sir. We would be encouraging their terrorism."

"One man's terrorism is another man's war of liberation," LaForge countered, quietly.

This time it was Will Riker who leaned forward, jaw set, fist on the table. "The Federation's position on the Rebellion is clear, Mr. LaForge: The Corridor is our territory, and we must act to secure it." His Second-in-Command turned to Worf. "And I wasn't suggesting that we let them go."

LaForge looked at the Captain. "Excuse me, Sir. I know you asked us not to give our opinions." The Chief Engineer looked around the table. "And it looks to me like the Rebels don't need any encouragement," he said, answering Worf's other point. "Has it occurred to anyone else that they carried out this attack with the _Enterprise_ sitting right in the middle of the Corridor? What are they trying to tell us?"

"They are determined, aren't they?" Beverly said, softly.

LaForge nodded. "They're letting us know they aren't afraid of us, and nothing's going to stop them. So we're back to where we started." Turning to look at him; they all were. "It's your call, Captain."

Though he hadn't needed it, reminding him of his duty, his deeper duty, of his moral obligations; only Geordi LaForge could get away with that. He looked around the table at each of his senior officers, Will, Geordi, Worf, Beverly, Data; only Deanna Troi was absent, unable to contribute her words of advice. What would she have said? Would it have made a difference? Impossible to guess, but probably not. The question was clear, as it had always been clear: By continuing their pursuit, would he send thirty to fifty more men, ultimately their own people, to their deaths this day?

"Captain," Data said, before he could speak.

"Yes, Mr. Data?"

"Official Star Fleet policy states that Federation Star Fleet ships are to pursue and detain any and all ships suspected of engaging in criminal activity, and escort them to the nearest Star Base for questioning, except where it would create harm to the Star Fleet vessel in pursuit. Am I not correct?"

He looked into the android's golden eyes, nodded. "You're quite correct, Mr. Data. There are no loopholes. Leave it to you to remain completely objective under the circumstances."

Data's head tilted a degree. "I will carry out your orders, Sir, whatever they may be. However, I do also have an opinion on the subject of the Rebellion."

Surprised, he stared at Data. "Do you, Mr. Data?"

"Captain to the bridge."

The communicator broke into their discussion. They were all standing and starting out of the room, in silence, a silence that was more somber than usual. Respecting his silence, or plagued by their own internal questions? Struggling with what was about to happen? He wanted to reassure them: This isn't any of your fault, we're just following orders. How many times in history had that excuse been used as a platform to execute policies otherwise unbearable to carry out? Far too often, he didn't need to be told. And then he realized that it wasn't their silence that was worrisome. It was his own conscience, his own silence, troubling him.

_Carry out your duty, Captain._ He could almost hear Rich Schoenhutt's voice in his ears as they were entering the bridge.

"Status report," he said, moving quickly down the ramp, the others moving as quickly into their places; only Beverly and Geordi had left their group, the doctor returning to Sick Bay, LaForge to Engineering.

"We are within long-range distance of the Rebel cruiser, Sir. The cruiser continues heading away from us at warp six on a direct path toward the Neutral Zone."

Data was resuming his post. "Maintaining their current heading and speed, the Rebel cruiser will enter the Neutral Zone in ten point four minutes."

"Put them on screen, Mr. Worf," he said, as he was sitting down, Will coming to sit next to him.

A small cruiser appeared on the viewscreen; even from this distance, the ship was clearly battered and old.

His Second-in-Command was looking the ship over. "Centauran. Vintage," Will added, quietly.

"Mmm," he murmured, in agreement. "Magnify, Mr. Data."

The ship was suddenly larger. Sections of the hull were damaged, some appeared oxidized, the two probe launchers obviously broken, though its patched-on weapons systems looked to be, if not exactly new, in good condition. "What are their weapons and defenses, Mr. Worf?"

"Class III phasers and standard shields, Sir."

Not a threat, not in the least a threat, to them.

He leaned back in his chair, staring at the little ship on the viewscreen. "Why don't they go faster?" he murmured.

"That may be the cruiser's top speed, Captain," Data replied. The android ears had picked up the question, taken it literally. Will turned to him in silence, the somber expression reflecting a more profound understanding of his question.

_Just following orders, just -_

"Take us to warp seven, Mr. Meyer," he ordered, suddenly.

"Warp seven, aye, Sir."

Data was turning. "Sir, warp seven will delay our -"

"Thank you, Mr. Data. Hail the cruiser, Mr. Worf."

After a moment, his Security Officer looked up. "No response to our hails, Captain."

"Continue to hail."

"The Rebel cruiser will reach the Neutral Zone in four point three minutes," Data called out. "We will intercept them in two point ten minutes."

On the viewscreen, the small battered ship was going away from them as fast as it apparently could, and yet every second growing visibly larger on the screen.

He was standing up. "Open a hailing frequency, Mr. Worf."

"Hailing frequency open, Captain."

"This is Captain Jean-Luc Picard of the Star Ship _Enterprise_," he called out; waited.

No reply.

_Just following orders - These are our people, Admiral - If I order you to -_

He had asked the Admiral to justify the Federation's actions against the Rebellion, but that hadn't been the question. The question was, How could he justify it to himself?

_Just following -_

"Mute signal. Slow to warp six, Mr. Meyer," he ordered.

"Warp six, aye, Sir."

"The cruiser will enter the Neutral zone in three point one minutes, Captain," Data called out. "At our present rate of speed, we cannot intercept their cruiser, Sir."

"We are still within weapons range, and I'm sure they know it, Mr. Data," he replied, folding his hands behind his back. "Open the channel, Mr. Worf."

"Open, Sir."

"This is Captain Jean-Luc Picard of the Star Ship _Enterprise_," he repeated, watching the ship on the viewscreen. "Captain of the cruiser, respond."

There was no reply.

"Mute. How long, Mr. Data?"

"Two point two minutes before the cruiser enters the Neutral Zone," Data replied.

He gestured to Worf to open the line. "Captain of the cruiser," he called out; waited. No reply. "Captain of the cruiser, will you identify yourself?"

The silence stretched unbroken.

"One minute thirty seconds," Data reported.

"Captain," Worf said, leaning over the rail to look at him. "Sir, we can still intercept the Rebel cruiser if we increase our speed before they enter into the Neutral Zone."

"Understood, Mr. Worf," he replied.

"One minute," Data said.

"Hold your speed and course, Mr. Meyer," he said, keeping his eyes on the Rebel ship on the screen.

Nearly out of their reach, now. In less than a minute -

Data looked up at the screen. "Captain, the cruiser is slowing." A moment's pause. "Cruiser stopped, Sir."

His Second-in-Command was moving across to Data's chair, looking over the navigator's shoulder at the screens, looking up at the viewscreen, then at him. "Stopped right on this side of the border, Captain."

He stared at the ship frozen in space on the viewscreen. A cold feeling, like ice water, was beginning to filter through his veins, settling uneasily in his stomach; why wasn't the other ship escaping into the Neutral Zone? "All right. Continue to hail. Helmsman, slow approach at minimal speed. Stop at a safe distance."

Will was turning to look at Worf. "Heads up," his Second-in-Command warned. Turning to him. "Shields, Captain?"

Shaking his head. "We're not in any danger at this distance, Number One."

Will nodded and looked at the viewscreen. "This has got to be the closest anyone's ever gotten to a Rebel ship."

He pursed his mouth: Why now, why them? "What do your close-range sensors tell you, Mr. Data? How many on board?"

"Ten men, Captain. The ship appears to have been modified in such a way that -"

_"Ten?"_ Not the thirty to fifty anticipated? Only ten? "Mr. Worf, hail the ship, tell them to prepare to be boarded," he rapped out. "Stand by with a tractor - Shields up!"

The viewscreen had filled suddenly with a tremendous fireball, and he had reflexively called out the command for the protective shields. An instant later, the _Enterprise_ was rocking slightly astern in the wash of the explosion, before automatically righting itself. He was squinting against the intensely bright white ball on the screen; so hot, that it was gone almost in a flash, the screen clearing a moment later -

The Rebel ship had vanished from the viewscreen.

Will was moving over to Data's side. "What the hell happened?"

"Matter/anti-matter was dumped into the cruiser's reactor, causing the engines to explode. It appears to have been done deliberately." Data looked up. "They destroyed themselves, Sir."

"Killed themselves, like all the others," Will said, before turning his head away with a jerk. "Damn!"

He was staring out at the debris floating toward them on the screen, like confetti after a party, in the emptiness of space. "Mr. Worf, notify Star Fleet," he said, after a moment, turning and walking back to his chair. "Rebel cruiser with ten men aboard contacted after attack on Ariana. Self-destructed with all hands aboard on the border of the Neutral Zone. Give them our exact coordinates, transmit all reports and readings. And do your analysis of the debris from the cruiser as quickly as possible."

The words hung there, clinical and cold, in the air. Not a fitting end to ten people's lives, ten Rebels who, regardless of right or wrong, had made the ultimate sacrifice for their cause.

"'There was war in heaven: Michael and his angels fought against the dragon; and the dragon fought and his angels,'" he said, quoting the solemn words as he remembered them.

Data turned to look at him, the golden eyes bright. "You are quoting the King James Bible, Sir. 'Revelations.'"

He nodded. "Centuries later, there's war in heaven still."

"And the dragon prevaileth not," Worf said, his deep voice ringing across the room.

Will turned to look at him, the question evident in his eyes: In this situation, which side was Michael and which the dragon? He straightened in his chair, tugging sharply at his tunic. "All right. Contact Selasdana, Mr. Worf. Tell them we'll have to re-schedule our visit with them, explain that we are on our way to Ariana to assist in their recovery efforts and will remain for the memorial services of our Star Fleet personnel who were killed there. Mr. Meyer, set a course to Ariana, warp eight."

"Course set, speed set, Captain."

"Engage." He jabbed his finger forward, afterwards looking over at his First Officer; he had promised Will a meeting earlier. "We can have that talk now, Number One."

His First Officer turned and was nodding. "Yes, Sir, thank you."

He stood from his chair, his Second-in-Command rising also, and they were starting across the room. "Mr. Data, you have the -"

"Captain," Worf called to him. He turned at the door of his Ready Room, Will stopping alongside. His Security Officer looked up from his screens, frowning. "Captain, Selasdana does not reply."

His suspicions, dying with the cruiser, revived, full-blown. "Doesn't reply?"

Will was striding past him, up the ramp towards Worf's station. "That can't be right. Try again," his Second-in-Command was ordering.

"Selasdana does not reply, Sir," Worf repeated, looking up, stepping aside so that the other man coming alongside could see the panels unobstructed; quickly studying the screens for himself, Will was looking up and over at the helm, eyes sharp and blazing. "Set a direct course to Selasdana, speed warp nine!"

The urgent note in Will's voice tugged at the pit of his stomach. "Engage," he ordered. The stars were instantly blurring in the viewscreen, as he turned back to face his First Officer.

Will was coming back down the ramp, eyes terribly intense in a suddenly taut and pale face, and he instinctively stretched out his hand as Will was passing, to stop him. "Number One?"

His Second-in-Command stopped, automatically, then seemed to try and catch himself up, with limited success; clearly something had upset him, but what? The strangely blazing eyes were turning to look at Worf again. "Anything from Selasdana?"

"Nothing, Commander," replied his Security Chief. "There is no response to our hails."

Will was swinging back around suddenly, facing the viewscreen, and this time distress and panic were written visibly on his face, in the staring eyes and slightly gaping mouth. "Oh my God. Oh my God, it was a ruse." His Second-in-Command choked the words out, hand brushing across his mouth, fingers trembling slightly. "Captain, the attack on Ariana was a ruse. They lured us away from Selasdana, from Selasdana! That was their real target. There's nothing on Ariana. But Selasdana - Selasdana - _Selasdana -_" The eyes of the younger man were swinging wildly back and forth, as if searching, searching, settling nowhere.

The impact of what his Second-in-Command was suggesting struck him: A ruse! He swung around quickly. "Sensor readings, Mr. Data?"

"Long-range sensors show no life signs on Selasdana, Sir," Data responded.

Will spun desperately around, as if he had been lashed. "What -? Check those readings again, Mister!"

His Second-in-Command barked the order out, was starting toward Data at the same time, but he caught the other man's arm once more, this time in mild restraint. "You're sure, Mr. Data?"

"Readings confirmed, Sir," Data said. "There are no life signs on Selasdana." Looking up from the screens. "Everyone on the planet appears to be dead, Captain."

The information appeared to hit Will like a blow, staggering him back a step; he held steadily to the man's arm, wondering what was causing his Second in Command to react so fiercely to what they were learning. The younger man was staring almost blindly, breathing fast through lips that looked suddenly dry, as if with some great shock. Eyes were starting to turn curiously in their direction.

"Commander." He turned slightly to the side with the other man, so that they could be more private. "Will," he said, speaking quietly, trying to catch his Second-in-Command's eyes. "Will - Will, what is it?"

The younger man looked at him, finally, eyes, bright with fear, piercing down deeply into his, sending a chill down his own spine. "Jean-Luc." Will's whisper was choked and ragged, hands passing over his face a moment, as if trying to stifle the terror explicit in his expression and voice; the ring was there on the finger. "Jean-Luc, my wife - my wife is - was - on Selasdana!"


	10. PT ONE, Ch 9 -- The Search

9. The Search

_Why did I leave her, why did I leave her, why didn't I stay with her?_

Will Riker, ordered into the Captain's Ready Room, was pacing the floor, only barely keeping himself from returning to the bridge each time he neared the door, held back only by the certain knowledge that they were racing to Selasdana at warp nine, and that everything was being done that could be done for now.

The sensors readings were an error of some sort, it was all a mistake, he was sure of it. Anna would be there just where he had left her, waiting for him. She was there, waiting for him: Of course she was! This was all worry for nothing. He was coming back, just as he had promised. And she would be there, waiting for him. She would be there. She would _be_ there. She would - She _would_ -

An image floated up in his mind, clear and compelling: Anna, black hair spilled over her bare shoulders as she lay on the tumbled bed, her eyes looking up into his.

_I'll be back as soon as I can._

His hands of their own accord were rising frantically to his face, to his eyes, to his hair, as he strode back and forth, unable to stop himself. He was desperate to be back at Selasdana, to find Anna, to find her, to be there with her, holding her close.

Stopped, suddenly, by a blinding realization:_ I should have brought her back to the ship. I should have brought her back to the ship with me!_ _Oh my God, why did I leave her there? Why didn't I bring her with me? I should have, I should have, why didn't I bring her with me? It was the logical - the right thing to do. My God, why did I leave her there?_

He sank down into the couch, covering his face with his hands, pressing his fingers into his eyes.

_Why did I leave her there? How could I do that, Anna? How could I leave you behind?_

Where are you, Anna? You have to be there, you -

He heard the door sliding open, quickly uncovered his eyes and was standing; the Captain was coming into the room. His friend's carefully neutral expression was all the word he needed. And yet - "Anything?"

His friend was shaking his head. "No, I'm sorry, Will. We're searching the Corridor, and all along the Neutral Zone for whoever's responsible for this attack on Selasdana. But there isn't a trace anywhere."

Unthinkingly, he started to pace again, back and forth, back and forth. "What is this? Who did this? Where did they go? They couldn't just disappear into thin air!" He stopped suddenly. Looking at the Captain. "Yes, they could. With _Chameleon_ they could." Of course. Of _course_, the _Chameleon_. "I can't believe it, Jean-Luc, I can't believe it. I can't believe that I would leave her there, knowing there was a _Chameleon_ in the area. How could I do that? How could I have just left her there? What in the world was I thinking? How in all the universe could I leave her there?" And yet the truth, harsh and uncompromising, was convicting him, in his own heart: That was exactly what he _had_ done. He _had_ left Anna there.

The other man was watching him closely. "Will. Please, sit down."

He felt, suddenly, how tired he was; drained, exhausted emotionally and physically. So much had happened in the space of a few short hours: His entire life had changed. Just yesterday, the Captain had sent him to Selasdana, just last evening he had met Anna, and then, quick as all that, this morning, this morning - she was gone. Gone! Just like that!

He sank into the couch, leaned back, closing his eyes and covering them with his hands. Pressing his fingers into the sockets, hard, as if to blind himself literally to the terrible reality, a reality he couldn't face, wouldn't be able to live with, if it were true.

_Anna. Anna, Anna! I was with you just hours ago, just last evening, this morning - a moment ago. Last night. Last night ..._

"A dream," he murmured. "And now this - this nightmare."

It was, had to be, a nightmare, a terrible nightmare. Any minute he would wake up, and ... _Oh, God, let this not be true!_

He felt the cushions giving way as the other man was sitting down next to him. He uncovered his face, turning to look into the grey eyes, reading the unspoken question there. "Jean-Luc," he said, numbly. "There wasn't a chance to tell you before: I was - I was married on Selasdana."

After a moment, the other man nodded. "Yes, I saw the ring, but I wasn't entirely certain of its significance." A pause. "Well - Congratulations, Will." Said utterly politely, though he had no doubt his friend was dumbfounded by the news. But that was Jean-Luc Picard, always the gentleman's form, carrying on, never forgetting to say and do the proper things, maintaining order and dignity, even in the bloodiest damn chaos.

"Thank you," he said, acknowledging the courtesy automatically. He took a deep breath, and then another, trying to shake off the confusion and fatigue clouding his mind. "I - I appreciate - the - your - Thank you."

His friend was quiet a moment. "This is - well, rather wonderful news. I'm happy for you, Will, of course. May I ask, well, when - that is, how, where - ?"

There was so much kindness and tact in his friend's delicate searching for the right words. And yet, even under the gentle prodding, he had to search his mind for an answer to the questions, try to find the right words to describe what had happened, not realizing until this moment how hard it would be to explain. If Anna had been here with him, of course, the answers would all have been easy. He would be introducing his wife, receiving surprised congratulations in a cloud of pleasure; instead of which, he was going to have to try and somehow describe something that was almost indescribable, now that she was - Begin at the beginning.

"I met her - we met - last night," he said. "At the Rhaenn's home. I met her - she was introduced at dinner. Anna - that's my wife - she's their daughter, the Rhaenn's daughter. Anna Rhaenn - well, Riker, now, Anna Rhaenn Riker. And - I - we -" He could hear how clumsily he was telling the thing, but his mind couldn't seem to help him organize what he wanted to express any better than he was doing. And yet his friend was giving him an encouraging look, and a nod, as if it were all perfectly clear.

"I recall the Rhaenns saying they had a daughter. And so, you were married. Last night?"

He realized that he wasn't finished. "Yes, late last night - no, well, actually this morning. It was morning, early morning, by then. I left there, came back here, and then I returned to Selasdana, to Anna - Dr. Rhaenn, Eric, and her mother, T'Prianne, - And then the Chaplain was called from the Outpost, and he came and married us." He stopped, reaching into his pocket and pulling out his wedding band. He had stored it there earlier for safekeeping; when he had returned to his quarters to change, the ring had nearly slipped off in the shower, the band loose on his finger. It had belonged to Eric Rhaenn. He held it out for his friend to see. "At the last minute, we realized that we didn't have any rings to exchange. Her parents insisted that we take theirs." It was an honor he couldn't refuse. He was staring at the plain worn band for a moment, raising the ring to his lips and gently kissing it. Almost, the tears came, then; he swallowed hard, took a deep breath, and then another, to keep them in check, tightening his hand around the ring, its edges digging into his palm.

His friend had paused a moment, kindly. "And this - your wife, Anna? She lived there on Selasdana, with her parents?"

He shook his head, clearing his throat a little so that he could reply. "She had just come home yesterday. From Vulcan."

Jean-Luc's eyes flickered. "Oh, yes. The night I met them, her parents told me they were sending their daughter back to Vulcan for a last year of school." He nodded, then paused. "And so Anna Rhaenn - Riker would have - _will,_ come to the _Enterprise_. She will be living here with you, of course."

Would have, will be: The difference between those two conditions had never been so alive to him as at this moment.

"You were planning to bring her here?"

"Well, I - we - when the call came from the ship, I just - I told her I would be back as soon as I could, and then I - I left." The monstrosity of what he had done was sinking in deeper as he recounted the events. _How could I? How could I have done it?_ Stricken to the core, he raised his eyes to his friend. "I thought - I thought - Oh God, I thought I would be coming back soon. I thought we had all the time in the world to -" To plan, to make decisions, to live the rest of their lives together. What had been of paramount importance to him then was that he had finally found the true love of his life: It had never occurred to him that he would, as quickly, lose her. Again, he stopped; inside his chest was burning, his throat closing around the shock of dawning realization: Was Anna - was his wife really and truly gone?

Jean-Luc was nodding. "Of course," his friend said, quietly. "You were going to return to her as soon as you could. Had you known what was going to happen, of course you would have brought the - your wife here. But you didn't know. How could you?"

He shook his head, but didn't reply. What could he say, how could he possibly justify his actions to anyone - to himself? There was no way ... no way ... He couldn't.

"It wasn't your fault, Will." Spoken firmly this time. "You couldn't possibly have known what was going to happen," his friend repeated. "Had you known, of course you would have acted differently."

He forced himself to speak. "Thank you, Sir." An automatic acknowledgment of his friend's kindness, his lips feeling almost numb as he spoke; his heart, his entire body felt as if it were nearly paralyzed, as if he'd swallowed some kind of slow-acting poison. "It's no good. My heart won't, can't, agree with you, and neither can my mind. I should have known, I should have suspected, at the very least been alert to the possibility of danger. I should not have left her there, not when I knew what I knew. She should have come to the ship with me, or I should have stayed there with her, and not left her alone to -" He couldn't say it, he couldn't even think it yet. What had she faced, alone, abandoned by him? "She would've been here, should've been here, if I had brought her with me. I would've been with her, if I hadn't left her. What kind of a man just leaves, just jumps up and leaves, just like that? What kind of a _husband_ does that? Leaves his wife, his brand-new bride, just like that, like, like -?" He couldn't find the words for what he had done. He raised his hand again, looking down at the ring in his palm. Then, unable to bear looking at it any longer, he was shoving the ring deep into his pocket.

His friend was shaking his head. "You came when the ship called you, as you should. You did your duty, Will. What -?"

"Captain to the bridge."

Data's voice sent an electric charge shooting directly into his heart: _Word, at last!_ They were standing immediately, and both walked quickly out of the Ready Room and onto the bridge.

"What is it, Mr. Data?" the Captain asked, as they were crossing the room.

Data looked up from the screens. "We are about to enter orbit above Selasdana, Sir. The short-range sensor readings are consistent with our earlier readings."

"No signs of life?" the Captain asked, in a low voice.

"No, Sir," Data replied.

Jean-Luc straightened at his side, and turned to look at him; a measuring look. He held the gaze steadily, anticipating what was coming: There would be an Away Team sent to Selasdana, and the Captain would want him to lead it, expecting him to act fully in his capacity as Commander, no matter his personal situation. He had to make every effort to live up to those expectations. Above all, he didn't want to be left behind, he had to go to Selasdana, he had to find out what had happened there - He had to find Anna.

The Captain nodded, appearing satisfied by what he'd seen. "All right." The words were decisive. "Commander, I will accompany you and the rest of the Away Team to Selasdana."

He felt a wave of relief passing through him, carefully modulating his voice before speaking. "There's no need for you to come along, Captain," he said, starting their usual argument, one he hadn't had to fight in a long time, though this occasion was producing its own twists to that old, familiar discussion of who should go, and who should stay behind, and why.

The Captain paused. "I have to go, Number One," his friend replied, quietly. "The Federation will want to have verified what happened to the Rhaenns - and, they were my friends. I have an obligation to them that I must fulfill."

He nodded, after a moment, understanding; his weren't the only needs involved. "Yes, Sir."

The Captain was touching his communicator. "Commander LaForge, report to the bridge. Dr. Crusher, report to the Transporter Room. Mr. Worf, you and Mr. Data will join us," he was saying, as they left the bridge together. "If the sensor readings are correct, we don't want to spend too much time there. We'll need to get back quickly as possible and look for the attackers, whoever they may be."

His mind was racing, but he was again careful not to show any emotion in his tone as he touched his communicator pad. "Transporter Chief, prepare to beam a landing party of five down to Selasdana Outpost."

"LaForge on the bridge, Captain."

"You have the ship, Mr. LaForge."

They were already entering the Transporter Room, with those last words, and he was following the Captain, stepping up beside him onto the platform; as they were taking their places, Worf was distributing phasers to each of them. He took his weapon and was strapping it on tight, anger suddenly surging through him, hot, furious, rage. He was ready and willing, more than willing, to kill whoever had done anything to harm his wife, he didn't care who it was, Rebels, Romulans, anyone. The phaser was hardly necessary, he would rip them apart with his own two hands.

The Transporter Chief was looking up from his instruments. "I'll have to put you down just outside the Command Post, Sir. That room's - a little crowded."

The Captain glanced at him: What would they find when they got there? His heart contracted with apprehension. And yet, he wished to be there already, he wanted, needed to be there, and he looked anxiously at the door. Beverly Crusher came into the room at that moment with her bag and tricorder in hand, the Ship's Doctor nodding her readiness to the others as she stepped quickly across the room and onto the platform. The Captain waited for her to step onto the pad behind his, before signaling to the Transporter Chief. "Energize."

The Transporter Room faded ... They were standing in a hallway. Over to their left, a few meters away from the door, a young woman in a red Federation uniform was in a seated position against the wall, her face turned to one side, blue eyes open, blonde hair fanned out awkwardly over her cheek: Dead, obviously, and the sight of her and the eerie silence hanging over the scene was chilling, the hairs rising on the back of his neck. The Doctor was walking over to the dead girl, raising her tricorder. He watched for a moment as the doctor examined her. There was something odd about the girl, something missing or misplaced, that he couldn't quite figure out, struggling to pinpoint what was wrong with the picture of her in his mind. The Captain turned away after a moment, walking toward the Command Post door, and he was following automatically.

The door was sliding open at their approach, Worf and Data moving past him into the room, but he had stopped where he was, rooted to the spot, at the sight before his eyes. Everywhere, all over the room, there were dead.

All of the dead were in Federation uniforms, laying on the floor, most singly, some in piles, or next to each other, just as if they had fallen down asleep at their posts.

Jean-Luc had remained at his side, the grey eyes returning to his face. "She wouldn't be here, Will?" his friend asked, in a low voice.

"I don't know," he murmured, dazed, hardly knowing what he said, drunk with the sight of all these dead, watching the doctor moving among the bodies, her tricorder at the ready, Worf at her side. To the left, Data was working at the nearest comm panels. "I left her at her parents' house, but she might have come to the Outpost after the attack had begun." _After I abandoned her_ - He shook off the thought. Now wasn't the time, he had to make himself concentrate, do his job.

The Captain had turned from him, was looking over at Data. "Mr. Data, how many people were stationed at this Outpost?"

"Fifty Star Fleet personnel were permanently assigned to Selasdana Outpost, three members of the Rhaenn family also lived in an attached home. When we left Selasdana this morning, our sensors indicated a total of fifty-three living," Data replied, looking up. "I can not verify these people's identities from here, Captain. All of the computer files appear to have been deliberately destroyed."

"Destroyed?" The Captain frowned. "Well, it's possible they may have had time to destroy the files to keep them from falling into their attacker's hands. The doctor can access Star Fleet medical records and match them to the deceased for identification." Despite the calm tone, he knew, could sense, even through his consuming concern with Anna's whereabouts, that the Captain was worried, as he was, about what they had found out so far; it just wasn't making sense.

Forcing himself to move, he made his way into and around the room, stepping carefully around the bodies, looking into each face, reluctantly, and yet pushed on by his need to know for sure what he didn't want to know: Was she here, was Anna among these dead?

Most of the deceased were young; Selasdana was probably the first assignment for many of them. Men, women, all races, the unknown faces were registering now only in a dim blur of strangers' features ... He was looking for, and would only truly see, one face, her face, her face, her beloved face ... _Anna ... Anna_ ... No, she wouldn't be here, she couldn't be here, among these bodies, she couldn't, she had to be, had to be ... where was she, where was she, and what was he going to do when he found her, he dreaded looking into the faces, dreaded finding her face ... she must be here, but where, where in all these bodies, these faces? _Anna ... Anna_ ... Where was she?

And then, there were no more faces to look into. He looked up in a daze, found himself at the other side of the room. He had come to the end, and she wasn't here. He had looked at every face in the room, and she wasn't here. Perhaps he had missed her somehow. No, no, that wasn't possible, how could he miss her? She wasn't here. _She wasn't here!_

Relief, and hope, were flooding in, before he could stop it: Oh, Thank God!

_But then, where -?_

"Doctor," Data was calling, from the doorway. "Please come and look at this."

He was turning instantly and heading, with the others, back out through the doorway and into the corridor, all except Worf, who had moved over to the sensors and remained there; he caught a glimpse of a frown on the other man's face.

Data was standing next to the body of the girl in the red uniform they had seen when they first materialized in the hallway. He was looking at the prone figure as he walked toward her, struggling to make some sense of what he was seeing. There was something wrong with her, the picture of her, he couldn't quite place what, though, but something, like an element out of place, as though she were missing her nose, no obviously not, but something as vital -

"Her insignia," he said, blurting his realization out loud as he made it. He looked up. The Captain was standing next to him. "Captain, she's wearing an officer's uniform. But her collar insignia's missing, and her communicator."

The Captain looked closely at the girl lying before him. "Yes, that's odd: Who is she, Mr. Data, do you know?"  
"Commander Janice Carter, Sir, according to Star Fleet records. She was the Commanding Officer of the Outpost." The golden eyes were turning to the doctor. "I thought you should see these bruises, Doctor. They may have some significance."

Beverly's eyes widened, giving away her surprise. "What bruises?"

Data bent over the girl and gently pushed her hair back, away from the face. He saw now that she was older than he had first thought; there were fine lines around the eyes, and mouth, and across the forehead. One small, purplish-blue spot was visible just above the collar of her uniform, along the jugular artery: Only the android, with his laser-sharp vision, could have seen that spot through the curtain of blonde hair.

Beverly was crouching next to the dead woman, guiding the tricorder over the bruise, then opening Carter's uniform; more spots came into view, one after another, neatly lined up along the indentation above the clavicle, four in all. "I wouldn't have found these until the autopsy." The doctor was looking up at the Captain, her eyes suspiciously narrowed. She stood and pointed to the spots, then spread her own fingers, as if gripping something. "Recognize the positioning? They're Vulcan pressure-points. Captain, this woman was unconscious already, before she died along with the others. This bruising is typical when death occurs soon after unconsciousness. The pooled blood doesn't have a chance to disperse. Instead it forms these bruises."

The Captain was turning to look into the Doctor's eyes. "How did these people die?"

She gave a little shrug. "They were stunned first, then killed by a massive disrupter attack directed at the Command Post."

"An attack? That's not possible," the Captain declared, sounding and looking baffled. "There's no sign of battle here. They look like they just - fell asleep. Mr. Worf?"

Worf was joining them, scowling, as if with frustration. "Captain, the Outpost's weapons systems were been completely neutralized, the defensive shields fully disarmed at the time of the attack."

"Everything down?" The Captain was shaking his head. "When we left, the Outpost was on full alert."

Yes: It was clear, now, what had happened, all the pieces falling were into place, penetrating through the cloud of despair he'd been in, clearing his mind into a piercing, certain sharpness. "Captain, they were ambushed." They were all turning to look at him. "Someone lured Captain Carter out of the Command Post, then applied the Vulcan nerve grip to knock her out, took her insignia, put it on, and walked right into the Command Post. In the moments before anybody realized it was an impostor, he crashed the system, disabling the weapons, allowing the shields to drop, and then they were attacked." He thought a moment, looking at the dead woman. "It might have been hastily planned, judging from the execution; he didn't even have time to hide Carter after he knocked her out. And he would've wanted the computer files, in his rush he must have accidentally destroyed them when the rest of the system went down. Still, the plan was effective."

"Yes, very." The Captain looked grim as he spoke. "Mr. Data, how many deceased?"

"Forty-eight in total, Captain," Data reported. "Forty-six bodies are here at the Outpost. Two more are located in a residence approximately a half-kilometer from here. Five more are unaccounted for."

Five unaccounted for? _Anna_ - It seemed impossible to believe his wife had escaped this carnage. Still, he had to hope, there was no other choice, until he knew differently. The Captain was looking at him, as if thinking the same thing, before turning to look at Worf. "There was a special transport that came in last evening and left early this morning. Could any of those five have been on that ship?"

"The Captain-Pilot reported no passengers on his departure, Sir," Worf replied.

"All the same, contact that transport, and verify who was aboard her when she left," the Captain ordered, turning and giving him a brisk, acknowledging nod. "You and I will go to the Rhaenn home, Commander. Mr. Data, you and Mr. Worf will continue your investigation here. Doctor, gather what you need here, get these people into stasis and into our cargo bay, then join us at the other site. We need to get done quickly, so that we can return to the ship and look for whoever did this."

"All right," she replied. "I'll do the notifications from the ship. We can collect the personal effects for the families when we return." Beverly Crusher looked around herself. "They're so young, most of them." The unmistakable sadness in the doctor's green eyes belied her professionally neutral expression. "One hundred forty-six dead, five missing, in the space of less than twenty-four hours. Is the Corridor worth so much blood, Jean-Luc? Is this why we came here?"

The Captain raised his hand to his mouth a moment as he looked around the room, before turning again to him, the eyes dark and somber. "Ready, Will?"

The Rhaenn residence. They had to go there and see who those dead were, and it had to be done now: Beyond that, he wouldn't allow himself to think. "Yes, Sir."

The Captain was touching his communicator pad. "Transporter Chief, set coordinates for the Rhaenn home. Commander Riker and I will go there now."

... They were in the same receiving room where he had arrived the previous evening. But this time, there were no lights, no colors, no music, no fragrance of flowers, none of the mysterious enchantment of the night before; he could hardly believe it was the same house. The room was now a cold, white box, echoing its emptiness: It struck him as being deathly cold, lifeless as a coffin -

"All right," the Captain was saying, shaking him out of his morbid train of thought. "Let's not waste time. You know the residence: Where first?"

"We'll go through room by room," he replied, nodding in the direction of the main hallway. "This way."

He led the Captain out into the corridor, their footsteps echoing down the empty hall. He stopped at the first door, the door to the living area, moving toward it. Steeling himself against what they might find, he stepped toward the door: It was sliding open.

The room was eerily silent. The furniture, ghost-white, looked as pristine as if it had never been touched, as if no one had ever lived here; he hadn't noticed yesterday how sparsely furnished the room was: There was only the sofa, some chairs and a center table. There were no holograms on the walls, no works of art, nothing decorative at all. He tried to remember how the room had looked the previous evening, but nothing came clearly to his mind.

The Captain had looked around also. "There's nothing here," the other man said.

And yet, last night ... _This is the room where I married Anna. We stood here before the Chaplain. I looked into her eyes and I swore -_

Cold flashed up his spine, constricting his breathing, and he backed out of the room quickly, the Captain following. He led the way down the hallway to the dining area. But this room, too, had undergone a complete transformation. The bare glass table and four chairs sat in the middle of the room, now chill and uninviting as if made of ice.

Last night, there had been wedding cake on beautiful plates, bottles of champagne and wine, ornate glasses they had drunk from in celebration, after the ceremony. For a moment, he had an eerie sense of dislocation, wondering if he was losing his mind, until he remembered the ring in his pocket: He hadn't been dreaming, it _had_ all happened, even if there was no longer any evidence of the events that had transpired.

They went from room to room, checking each one carefully; all were the same, devoid of any personal effects of any sort, as though someone had gone through and swept all traces of anyone ever living here from the house. At the rear of the house, set off in its own corridor, were the Rhaenn's quarters. He was walking toward the door of their workspace -

- and stopped, suddenly, his nerves tingling. Something was behind this door. He looked over at the Captain, saw the alertness in the other man's eyes, as if he had felt it too.

He unharnessed his phaser and aimed it at the door. Whoever was ruthless enough to do what they had done at the Outpost wouldn't hesitate now, they had to be ready - He signaled to the Captain that he would go in first, then stepped silently forward, the other man right behind: The door was sliding open -

Eric and T'Prianne Rhaenn were both laying there on the floor in plain sight, gruesomely, stinkingly, dead.

_"Bloody Christ_." He heard the Captain choke out the words, instinctively blaspheming against evil. "God's Grace - _Who did this?_"

He found himself moving slowly toward what had been T'Prianne Rhaenn, his skin raising in horror, eyes, mind, trying to absorb what he was seeing, and unable to - He had to turn away.

Too late: The sight was imprinted in his mind, forever, he knew. The surgically sadistic twistings, cuttings - And there was the stench of ruptured bowels, filling his nose, his mouth, throat. In another moment, he would be sick -

"Let's get out of here," he heard the Captain gasp, sounding utterly sickened himself.

He stumbled drunkenly out the door, stopping finally when he was well away from the room, and leaning against the wall, gasping for air. His head throbbed, his stomach was heaving, heart beating so hard that there were spots before his eyes. When his sight cleared a little, he saw the Captain standing a few feet away, shaking and pale.

"Jean-Luc," he heard himself hoarsely gasping, surprised that he could speak at all. "Jean-Luc - Who could have done that?" Could the Rebels have committed such an atrocity?

Jean-Luc shook his head. "I don't know." The other man's voice shook with horror as he spoke. "People with something to prove, obviously. But what? What purpose could killing the Rhaenns like that possibly serve?"

He shut his eyes suddenly, covering his face: Anna! This was what he had left her to, these were the animals she had had to face without him to defend her! "Where is she, Jean-Luc?" He opened his eyes and was staring at his friend, the question tearing out of his depths. "Where is she?"

Over the Captain's shoulder was a door; through the horror engulfing his mind, he suddenly recognized it, realized where exactly it was that he was standing. He straightened, slowly, to face the door.

The Captain, seeing his look, was glancing back at the door, before turning to face him. "What is it, Will?"

Anna's room. The room they had spent their wedding night in, the room he had left her behind in, laying on the bed. The room he had last seen her in, alive.

_I'll be back as soon as I can._

"I left her here," he said, staring at the door. "In this room."

_I'll be back - I'll be back - I love you -_

Quickly, without giving himself time to think about it, what he might find inside, he stepped toward the door: It was sliding open, and he stepped inside the room.

It was empty, but not like the other rooms; the bed was disheveled, pillows heaved about, blankets on the floor: At least here in this room, there was vivid proof of their night together, he hadn't dreamed all of it, as he had wondered earlier. In a corner of the room crumpled in a heap near the door, was Anna's wedding dress where it had been flung; he remembered again, his almost inexcusable haste with her on their wedding night. But he'd been like a man on fire, desire burning him through like a flame, and there'd been only one way to quench it - No, he couldn't think about that now, not now, not when she might be -

He turned away. On the bureau next to the bed was the bouquet she'd carried when they were married. It was still fresh, surprisingly; Remadaian flowers were extremely fragile, delicate and beautiful as lace and absolutely unforgettable. He picked up the little posy, held it to his face, breathing its fragrance in deeply, closing his eyes -

- _Anna was standing in front of him, holding the flowers, her eyes looking up into his._

I will be with thee, William Thomas Riker, now and forever.

I will be with thee, Anna Rhaenn, now and forever.

_Swearing a solemn oath, an oath he had broken just a few hours later_ -

"Will."

The Captain's voice was breaking into his reverie. He opened his eyes. His friend gestured slightly. "There's nothing else here, Will." Speaking the words very gently.

Nothing here. He put the flowers down where they had lain. Picked them up again. Anna had held them, now he was holding them. And yet, try as he might, he couldn't feel any connection to her through them: They were cold in his hand.

"Beverly could put these into stasis for me," he murmured, caressing the flowers.

"Bring them, if you like."

Bring them. He could bring them. But why, what purpose would it serve? What did they represent? A remembrance, but of what? A wife he had barely known, now gone? A broken promise?

He turned, and was staring at the bed. _God, that empty bed._ He walked over and sat down on the edge of the bed, reaching to touch the place where she had lain, running his hand over the pillow. Just this morning, her head was resting on this pillow, he had kissed her lips, made love to her here, held her in his arms, in this bed. Now it was empty and cold, cold as the flowers in his hand, as this entire house. The Captain was right, there was nothing here. There was nothing in the flowers, or anywhere here, to hold onto; it was all gone, vanished. He set the flowers down, gently, on the pillow. Let them be for her, a memorial, fragile and brief, as their marriage

"Anna, Anna," he cried, suddenly feeling his heart breaking inside his chest, his grief overwhelming him. "Anna, oh God, oh God, God forgive me, forgive me, for leaving you, my precious love, Anna! Anna, Anna. _Anna!_" His friend's warm hand came to rest on his shoulder, gripping it tightly.

"Doctor Crusher to the Captain."

Hearing Beverly Crusher's voice, he struggled to get control of himself: They had to get back to the ship soon, he knew. They were wasting time here they could be using to search for the killers, and for his wife, wherever she might be.

"Yes, Doctor," the Captain was replying.

"I'm here at the residence. Where are the -?"

Jean-Luc's hand left his shoulder abruptly. "In the rear of the house." The strain in the Captain's voice reminded him of the sight of the butchered bodies the doctor would soon be confronted with. "Wait where you are, Doctor, I'll come and get you." He started to stand to go with the Captain, but the other man shook his head, was motioning for him to sit, before speaking again. "Oh, and Doctor, were you able to account for all the personnel at the Outpost?"

"Yes, all accounted for."

Jean-Luc gave him a steadying glance. "Were any of them civilians? There should have been a girl here: Anna Rhaenn, the Rhaenn's daughter."

"No, there were no civilians at the Outpost, they were all Star Fleet personnel. The name doesn't sound familiar. Anna Rhaenn, did you say? Let me check again."

The Captain nodded, looked at him. "I'll be back, Will."

He took a deep breath. Looking up at his friend. "Jean-Luc, before you go: I don't think that I can bear - I think it would be best if - if we don't - I don't intend to tell anyone about this - about my marriage, for the time being. If I were to say anything about it and - If she's really gone - dead -" He hesitated, struggling to keep control, hold on. "I mean, they don't know her. No one even got the chance to meet her." He was shaking his head. "No one knew, so no one will know there's been - I don't want people on the ship walking on eggshells around me, worrying what to say, what to do. Keeping this private would be - less awkward for everyone. Why should anyone feel sorry for me, for the dead wife they didn't even know I had?"

His friend's warm hand returned to his shoulder. "She may be alive, Will," the Captain reminded him, in a gentle tone. "Don't give up yet."

After all the horror he had seen -

He reached up and gripped the hand tightly, looking up into the kindly concerned face, the solemn grey eyes feelingly reflecting his trouble.

"Let her be alive, Jean-Luc! Let her be alive!"


	11. PT ONE, Ch 10 -- THE WAR

10. The War

The night before, after leaving the Rhaenn's dinner and returning to the ship, Riker had stood at the door of his quarters, reluctant to enter. He was a tidy person, and for once he regretted it. Returning here now only magnified his loneliness to himself, mocked by these echoing walls, that bare, utilitarian furniture, the cold, tight bed. How nice it would have been to find books strewn on the settee, a shirt tossed on the floor, even dirty dishes on the table, some semblance of real living which until now he had never realized his rooms so completely lacked. This wasn't life! This wasn't living! This was - this had been killing time, waiting … waiting for something greater than himself to take hold of him, something he had never believed in, or even knew existed …

_Anna ..._

Eric Rhaenn had said to him at dinner, and it was true, he had met and enjoyed the company of many beautiful women over the years, but except for the period of time when he was seriously involved with Deanna Troi, he had never been very much in love.

He walked over to the window and stood there, staring out ...

_Anna ..._

But now, he knew all of that was behind him. Suddenly, unexpectedly, his life, whatever it was he had of it, could claim for himself as a man, had been given over with an overwhelming force to an even greater force, had found at last an end and an object, and there was no turning back; he was no longer himself, for himself alone.

He lay down on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. Recalling her face, effortlessly.

_Anna ..._

She had appeared literally like a vision, stepping through the floating curtains, out of the sparkling mist, introductions had been made and they had all returned to their seats at the table. He had turned his attention politely to the girl, engaging her in conversation, and in a very few minutes, quite unaware of his actions, had drawn his chair closer to her. As he had surmised, the Rhaenn's daughter was young, but for all her youth extraordinarily poised and strikingly beautiful, her raven hair shimmering loose down her back, framing a delicately boned face, of Vulcan ancestry undoubtedly, violet eyes as beautiful as cut amethysts denoting the Noonian bloodlines. Her manner of conversation, though quietly well-bred and polished, nevertheless exposed an educated and agile mind, that penetrating intelligence and lucid judgment that defined the Vulcan character, and which set her apart as an extraordinary young woman, as if her life was already one of meaning, of substance and wisdom, as extraordinary as her physical beauty of which in appraising her more closely, his inspection had not disturbed the seeming flawlessness; he soon found himself unwilling to turn away, his heart and mind becoming as captivated as his eyes. Feelings he had never had before swept over him with such an intensity that before he even knew it to say to himself, he knew: he had met the woman he had been destined for, the one he had been waiting for all his life.

_Anna ..._

Though he hadn't realized how late it was until he was called to by T'Prianne's mention of the hour, he had left the Rhaenn's residence more than reluctantly shortly thereafter. At one point Eric Rhaenn had seemed to be on the verge of asking him to stay the night, but T'Prianne Rhaenn had quieted her husband with a look; it wasn't the first time that evening he suspected they were communicating telepathically. And so he had taken his leave of them; of her. The phrase that had come to his mind as he said goodbye to Anna, "Parting is such sweet sorrow," seemed hopelessly inadequate to express the depth of his despair in having to leave her presence; that he could come to feel so much in so brief a time was not surprising because the truth was undeniable: He had fallen in love.

_Anna ..._

Giving up on the idea of rest, he was rising from his bed. Leaving his quarters, he started walking down the passageway. Maybe if he could talk to someone ... If Deanna were here, she'd be the first to hear it from him, and he longed suddenly for her presence.

_Jean-Luc._ His friend would want to hear about his evening with the Rhaenns, he was sure of that. They would start out talking about the Rhaenns, which would lead naturally to talk of their daughter, and at the right moment, he would confide his secret, share his private delight, wonder aloud at the strange suddenness of the feelings that had bloomed unexpectedly in his heart; he could almost see his friend's surprise, hear the words of marvel at the news. But, the time: He knew it was too late, Jean-Luc would be fast asleep at this hour.

He looked up, and found himself in front of Data's quarters. Data wouldn't be asleep, the android had no need for rest. He signaled; in a moment, his friend had come to the door and invited him in. But he had no sooner seated himself, than he was up, walking around the room, petting Data's cat Spot, studying the new painting his friend was working on, sitting at his friend's desk and trying to understand the emotion-chip program on the workscreen before getting up again, going to the window and looking out, finally returning to the middle of the room and standing there, vaguely aware that Data's golden eyes were watching him. "Commander, is something bothering you?"

"Bothering me?"

"You are restless in your movements, and seem distracted, which in humans is sometimes an indication of mental or emotional agitation."

He sank into a nearby chair, rubbing his face with his hands. He was looking around the room, and then he was standing up. And then he sat down again. Finally, he looked at his friend.

"I met someone tonight, Data - a woman," he said. "I've fallen in love with her." At the admission, he burst out laughing, without knowing why, then stopped short.

The android equivalent of happy surprise seemed to illuminate the golden face, the eyes flickering as the information was processed, lips curving into a facsimile of a smile. "This is a special occasion. Congratulations, Commander," his friend said. He was shaking his head, and waving his hand impatiently at the good wishes Data had expressed. His friend tilted his head a degree, the golden android eyes appearing to measure his reaction. "Sometimes my responses to human communications are incorrect. I judge this to be one of those times when I have not said the appropriate -"

"No, it isn't that, it's not that, it's nothing to do with what you said," he replied, interrupting his friend. "I mean that I, I - I thought that I would feel pure joy, that there would be, I don't know, harps, and angels! But it's not like that. I feel, I don't know, crazy. It's strange, almost - almost painful." He laughed again, the sound blurting out of his mouth. "I am extremely, agonizingly, madly, head over heels in love, Data."

The android watched him as he spoke. "You have expressed so many conflicting emotions that it is hard to know which ones to respond to, Commander."

"I think that's what I was trying to say. Never mind. Tell me about this new painting." He walked over to the easel, listening to his friend's chattering on with only half an ear, until finally, after an eternal hour, he excused himself and left Data's quarters.

Where now? His other friends would be asleep. He could go to Ten-Forward and see who was there, maybe have a drink. No: He didn't want a drink. He didn't want a stroll in the solarium, he didn't want a work out in the gym, or a Holodeck fantasy. Although ...

A new scenario ... No, no! He shoved the idea out of his mind: A thing like that would just work him up even more, a purely physical release would only end by irritating him because there would be no emotional satisfaction. No, he wanted the real thing, he -

He stopped in his tracks.

That was it. He wanted the real thing. He wanted Anna. He wanted, he wanted to be with her, to hold her, to have her, entirely, as his own, for himself alone.

But, how?

He would go to her. Right now.

No, no, he couldn't, of course he couldn't. There was no way he could go right now, it was impossible.

Impossible.

The whole thing was impossible.

A sudden surge of angry impatience at his constraint narrowed his eyes, heated his blood. Impossible! He couldn't! Why, the whole world stood against it, everything, every single thing in the universe was between them, between his going to her right now, this instant. And yet, that was what he wanted - needed. It was almost a physical pain, a torment, that he couldn't simply do as he wanted. It was maddening, simply maddening. Why couldn't he go to her, right now, right now? Why couldn't he? Why couldn't he just go to her? And if she felt the same way ...

No, he couldn't. He couldn't go to her, and that was all there was to it. He couldn't go to her, of course he couldn't, he knew he couldn't go to her. It was worth his life even to think about it! Again, he felt the constraint weighing on him, felt as he if would be crushed under it.

It came to him, suddenly: He _would_ go to her. He had to, he had to go. He would go right now. Nothing would stop him. He would gamble everything on this chance. Everything rested on this, on going to her, now, this instant.

"Transporter Chief," he said, as he headed for the Transporter Room. "One to beam down to Selasdana." He was calm as he spoke, calm in his resolve. Calm and determined. He would see this thing through to the end.

[* * *]

Silently as possible, he made his way through the house, down the dark corridors toward the back of the house. He stopped at each door, sensitive as a cat, listening a moment, before moving on. Not this one, not this one -

This one. He could feel warmth through the door, hear slight, soft breathing. He had come this far. There was no turning back now. He approached the door; it was sliding open. He stepped inside. There was the softest shine of moonlight in the room as he crept toward the bed -

Eric and T'Prianne Rhaenn were sleeping there.

He backed out of the room quickly and quietly as he could, holding his breath until he was down the corridor a dozen fast steps, bumping suddenly into a small table, and he was turning and catching the table, righting it and the crystal something or other that was tumbling around on top, the seemingly thunderous noises echoing off the walls. He waited, frozen, for any sign of stirring from the room he had just left.

Nothing. The house was silent and still.

He started down the corridor again. Here was another door. He moved closer. The door slid open. He slipped silently into the room, soundlessly as he could nearing the bed -

It was her. Anna, her long hair in a thick plait falling over her shoulder, one hand's fingers curled alongside her cheek, sleeping.

Her eyes opened suddenly, and she sat up in bed, covers sliding down, exposing a light gown close against her figure.

He raised his finger to his lips, even as he realized that it wasn't necessary; he sensed no fear in her, knew she wouldn't call out. He walked slowly across the room. She was quiescently still, a lovely waiting stillness, as if she, too, were in no hurry for him to arrive.

Sitting on the edge of her bed, he was looking into her eyes. "Do you know why I'm here?"

The violet eyes were gleaming in the moonlight. "Yes, I know," she replied.

Her acknowledgement settled inside him; he looked at her, at this girl who had taken complete possession of him, his heart, his soul, his being. "Is it all right?"

She nodded. "Yes, it is all right."

"May I kiss you?" he asked her, rather formally, wanting the formality of her agreeing, her conscious acceptance of what had happened between them. She lifted her face to his, her eyes darkening slightly as she did; he felt a thrill at the sight, as if she had brushed the nerves and fibres of his body.

He looked into her beautiful eyes, her hair brushing across his hand, electric on his skin. He was touching her cheek, sliding his fingers under her chin, and guiding her lips to his, entering into a perfect state of grace as his mouth touched her lips, there was nothing now, but the finishing, the fulfillment -

Lights came on overhead.

Eric Rhaenn was at the door, stepping into the room, the scientist looking from him to Anna and then back to him. He turned to Anna, who was looking calmly at him, as though she needed no reassuring. He knew in that instant that he hadn't been wrong about her. They were meant for each other, what was between them now could not ever be broken. He was standing from the bed, facing the other man and walking toward him. He sensed no anger in Rhaenn, and he wasn't afraid of the scientist's reaction to his presence in Anna's room.

"Please come with me, William," the scientist said, before turning and leaving the room.

He followed Rhaenn out of the room, and they walked back down the corridor past the door to the room he had stumbled into earlier, entering a door beside it, into a large room that appeared to be a workspace. T'Prianne Rhaenn was sitting at a desk; it occurred to him that he had just seen the couple a few minutes earlier sleeping in their bed.

"You knew I would come back," he said, suddenly understanding. "You know why I'm here." It was best to admit the truth; they would know if he lied, and in any event, he wasn't inclined to lie. "You know how I feel about her. I had to come back."

T'Prianne was leaning back in her chair. "There is an understanding between Anna and yourself, William. You have chosen Anna. And Anna has accepted you."

Eric came around the desk to stand beside his wife. "We wish only to understand the terms under which we relinquish our daughter to you. Your time here is limited; your ship leaves soon. We have no desire to impose a formal relationship, William," Rhaenn said. "She is our only child and we would like to see her properly settled in marriage, since that is your customary binding ceremony. However, it is your decision."

He stared at the scientist as he heard him out, and then broke out in a smile, surprise at this turn of events quickly overcome by the realization that what Eric Rhaenn had proposed, offering his daughter in marriage, was ultimately what had driven him here; this was exactly what he wanted. "Yes," he said. "Yes, I will marry her. I want her as my wife."

Eric and T'Prianne looked at each other a brief moment. T'Prianne stood from her chair. "Please excuse me," she said, and she left the room.

Rhaenn turned to him when they were alone, and they shook hands formally. "I'll take care of her, sir," he said. "I swear that to you."

"Thank you for that assurance, William. Our daughter is young and may need a great deal of care," the scientist said, sounding as he had earlier at dinner, somber but calm, a strange combination of emotional tones that yet were easy to accept in the scientist, as if it were a part of his greater wisdom of the workings of the universe.

He said nothing in response. He knew what he felt, there was no point in discussing ages, or anything else.

Rhaenn nodded. "You're determined. Very well. If that's the case, there's a chaplain here that can marry you right away," the scientist said.

The offer caught him off guard. Marry immediately? He would have expected Captain Picard to marry them in a ceremony aboard the _Enterprise_ with all his friends in attendance. Rhaenn was shaking his head. "Why wait? You can be married within the hour, and spend your wedding night here, with us. Time enough for your friends to share in your happiness later."

The door opened, and T'Prianne came in, accompanied by her daughter. He looked at Anna a moment, then turned to Rhaenn, in agreement. "Very well, call the Chaplain." He walked over to Anna and took her hands in his, looking into her beautiful eyes, and reading in them the promise of an eternity of loving each other, of being bound to each other, forever.

[* * *]

The Captain was coming back into the room, interrupting his reverie. "Will," Jean-Luc said, quickly. "Will, she wasn't there among the others, I've reviewed all the records with the Doctor. Anna Rhaenn Riker isn't here on Selasdana."

His heart began to lift, with the realization. That meant that Anna might still be alive. "You're sure?"

"Yes, quite sure," the Captain replied. "I had Beverly run another check for me. Those people at the Outpost are all accounted for, except for the five missing. There is no Anna Rhaenn here."

"But then - where could she be?" Despairing again. "Not with the people who did this?" Pray God, no! If she was with the people responsible for these killings - No, he did not want to consider her fate in their hands!

"She definitely isn't here, that much we know," the Captain was saying. "Worf contacted the only other vessel that's been here since we arrived. A transport, special charter, direct from Vulcan. They brought one passenger, Anna Rhaenn, to Selasdana, and no one else, and they took no one away from Selasdana; our sensor records confirm that. There's no good reason to suspect the Captain-Pilot of concealing anything he might know, but we've asked him to return, and he's agreed to cooperate fully with our investigation. That means there's still five people missing. We think we know the identities of the other four: A Ulti Uni Ros, Science Officer,a Lt. Roberto Chavez, Weapons Officer, a Senior Chief Patrick Neely, Senior Engineering Officer, and a Senior Chief Tomas Boaez, Outpost Counselor. They were the senior officers of the Outpost, excluding of course, Commander Janice Carter. There is no other person missing except for Anna Rhaenn." Then speaking, impatiently. "Let's go. We need to get back to the ship, look for the people who did this."

His friend's face was grim, as if there were more bad news. "What is it?"

The Captain was shaking his head. "I'll have to report this to the Admiral. After the events of today, including the brutal murders of the Rhaenns, I've no doubt he'll call for putting an end to the Rebellion, and the Council will agree with him."

Jean-Luc's eyes met his. The grey eyes were dark, darker than he had ever seen them. "This certainly means war."


	12. PT ONE, Ch 11 -- The Return

11. The Return

"You can't go home again," Deanna Troi heard Beverly saying.

She had been watching Will; he was sitting at the other side of Ten Forward staring out of the window into space. She tore her eyes away from him to look at Beverly across the table they were sharing. Her friend was gazing at her, a little smile on her face. "Sorry, what was that?"

Beverly leaned over the table. "I said, you can't go home again. It's an ancient human writing. Means that we don't always come back to the same place we left."

Yes, that was exactly it, precisely what she was experiencing, ever since she had come back to the _Enterprise_. She hadn't returned to the same place she had left. This wasn't the first time she had been struck by the captured wisdom in Terran literature. There was a lot to be said for the human practice of encoding emotional reference points into their art, a sort of shorthand map into the profound human heart.

You can't go home again.

Her eyes drifted back over to Will again. He had been sitting in exactly the same spot, at the last table against the wall, gazing out through the glass, since she had joined Beverly for lunch almost an hour ago. Something about him had changed; from the time she had returned to the ship, she had been trying to understand exactly what was different, but hadn't been able to pin it down. He seemed to be the same Will Riker she had always known - and yet, not the same. And not only him. The Captain, too, seemed like a different person. At times she felt as if ... as if she hadn't come back to the same people she had left.

_You can't go home again._

"How did you know, Beverly?"

The other woman sighed and leaned back in her chair. "The poignant expression on your face. I've been seeing a lot of that look lately, in my own mirror. Seeing it in you made me realize how really different things are around here."

_You can't go home again ... _

When she had returned to the _Enterprise_, the ship was fully engaged in a search-and-rescue mission whose purpose was to find five people missing from Selasdana Station and presumed held by Rebel forces. Will had been placed in charge of the work and she had felt in him a sense of terrific urgency and crisis in the effort. And not just Will, the Captain was as keen on helping find the hostages as on any mission they'd ever undertaken before. Whenever she looked around, it seemed, the two men were huddled together in a corner, conferring, planning, directing, seemingly working tirelessly every minute around the clock on finding and saving those missing people.

Both men greeted her return with a warm but distracted cordiality; she felt their distance but set it down to their intense involvement with the work at hand. When she had joined the search task force, her instinct had cautioned her to go slow at first; she eased herself into the meetings, quietly listening, waiting patiently for someone to ask her a question she could answer, speaking only when she had something very pertinent to say, and then only to that point. When she had begun to ask questions about the attacks in the Corridor, the answers came primarily from Beverly, Worf or Data. Will would hardly speak of it, was almost curt if she pressed him on details. The Captain was another, equally complicated, matter. His replies to her queries, while more expansive, were also reserved.

At one meeting, after fielding a particularly tricky question that seemed to open a way into possibly searching for the hostages within the Neutral Zone under certain limited circumstances, Will had looked at her, _really_ looked, as though he had suddenly realized that she was here among them, even though she had been back on board for over a week at that point. It was a strangely intense look, and for one wild moment as though his appearance had somehow been radically altered, though she could see for herself that it hadn' t. Still, he had acknowledged her presence and she contented herself with that; his mind was all in one direction, pinpoint-focused on his work, but she had felt many times by then how torn up he was inside, his heart and soul deeply ravaged with pain and racked with guilt. There was almost, but not quite, a mirroring of those feelings in the Captain, although she couldn't be certain they stemmed from the same source. She couldn't be certain because, to her amazement, for the first time since she had come to the _Enterprise_, both men were intentionally freezing her out. She sensed that this had to do with what had happened on Selasdana, though she could not find out exactly what about those circumstances would provoke such feelings in either Will or the Captain. All of this was a shocking and distressing situation, knowing they were in dire personal need of her counsel yet being kept strictly at arm's length, and restraining her Betazed nature had never been harder for her to do. But she had no choice in the matter: Much as she wanted to help her friends, she had to respect their desire for privacy.

They were in the Captain's Ready Room one morning, she, the Captain, and Will, reviewing the personnel files of the crew stationed on Selasdana; the Captain had asked them to look for any indications of previous misconduct in the Outpost records. She could feel that, although Will was also actively helping with the review of the records, he was bewildered, and even somewhat angered, by the suggestion of unprofessional behavior within their dead colleagues' ranks. In the Captain, she felt a patient, gentle, dogged, determination, along with sympathy for, and even entanglement with, the feelings of the other man. And yet, neither said anything openly to the other; this in two men she had always known to be utterly frank and even outspoken in expressing their opinions to one another. How did all these things fit together, what did it all mean? What had happened on Selasdana?

She was skimming through the files, trying to get a "feel for anything out of the ordinary," as the Captain had requested, but hadn't found anything unusual. Each of the files had Federation records of service, with hyperlinks to personal histories, medicals, visuals. Under visuals, there were two new, grim, cross-references listed: Crime Scene, and Autopsy. She remembered suddenly, something she'd long been curious about: The Vulcan grip that had been used on the Commander of the Outpost, she'd wondered about that detail ever since she had heard about it. She touched the screen, requesting all crime scene visuals; she'd heard the massacre in the Command Post spoken of and described enough times to know what to expect: Scattered piles of uniformed bodies laying peacefully around a large room. She was skipping through the visuals, searching for the one she wanted -

On her screen suddenly appeared a visual of two mutilated bodies, the caption identifying the remains as those of Eric and T' Prianne Rhaenn. She gasped in horror at the sadistic carnage. "Oh my God, what happened here?"

Will had moved to see what was on her screen, quickly turning aside. "Don't look at it," he muttered, moving away.

Deep into the impression of what she had seen, she could only stare at him. Connecting unexpectedly to the storm roiling furiously up in his body and soul almost to the bursting point at the sight of the pictures. "Oh no, Will," she whispered, suddenly understanding his pain, and the anger and guilt behind it. "You were there, you saw this."

He spun around and reared over her, face flushing, breathing hard, the look in his eyes as if he could kill her for reminding him; her training, and the searing pain she felt welling uncontrollably inside him, kept her from recoiling away. "Leave it alone, Counselor," he said, between his teeth, eyes blazing out at her. "Don't think you can just nicey-feeley your way inside me and make this all better, because you can't, do you hear? You can't!"

Before she could react, he had turned and stalked out of the room. Bewildered, she looked to the Captain. The grey eyes were shuttering away from her, cold steel walls clanging down and closing her out, turning his face away; she caught a passing look of anger in his own expression that surprised her even more.

"This has been a hell of a time." The Captain's eyes were searching the air above her head for a moment; then looking back at her, face now set into a carefully neutral expression. "I don't ask you to excuse him because of that, Deanna. But Will's carrying a great deal of the burden of this mission on his shoulders, and it's been very bad, much worse than you can imagine, for him - for everyone." The Captain paused again, mouth closing tight. She felt herself fading completely out of the Captain's thoughts. And then, surging back on the unexpected: Pity, she felt it, saw it in his eyes.

"Why? Why do you feel sorry for me?"

"For you. For him. Some situations are not of our making, beyond our control." Shaking his head. "And yet we still pay for them."

"Yourself as well, Captain?" she asked, sensing an opening into his consciousness she might be allowed to plumb.

He looked at her, grey eyes brooding and somber; she felt a shimmer of pain running through his being. "I blame myself for losing those people. He does, too." But his defenses were suddenly up again, the doors closing. "It can't last much longer. Even if they are still alive, which is highly doubtful, those people could be anywhere. We've been trolling along the Neutral Zone closest to the systems we suspect the Rebellion of using for their bases for weeks now. But in reality, we're searching for a micron needle in a universal haystack, and he knows that, deep down. Excuse me, Counselor," he said, and he was standing and leaving the room.

And she was left to wonder, yet again. What had happened on Selasdana?

She was in her quarters that evening, when Will came to her door. The look in his eyes instantly opened her heart to him, and in another moment she was engulfed in an embrace so tight that she couldn't breathe, nor did she want to: Since the day she had met him, his arms were all the life she'd ever wanted, she would accept her death there, too. _Imzadi_, she almost said, holding it back at the last second. Instead she gently stroked his back. "I'm so sorry, so sorry," she heard him say, in a voice painfully broken and hoarse with anguish.

Her heart ached for him, for whatever mysterious agony it was that he was suffering. "If I could only understand, if only you'd let me help," she murmured.

His arms went tighter, abruptly releasing her a moment later, and stepping back, his face turned away. "You can't, Deanna," he said, his voice low and hoarse, straining. "No one can. Please, don't try. What happened on Selasdana -"

Grief, fathomless and intense, breaking in his voice, locked her into a wondering silence, and she watched him walking quickly out of her room.

What did happen on Selasdana? And what instinct had kept her from calling him "Beloved?"

Beverly sighed and stood from the table, bringing her out of her reverie. Her companion smiled at her. "I'm going back. Nobody much feels like talking these days." Waving a hand to stop her protests. "Oh, not just you. Jean-Luc, too ... And Will. And maybe me, too. This thing's got us all crazy, I think." Sighing again. "And who knows when it'll be over?"

This thing: What exactly was This Thing? Behind Beverly, she saw Will standing, suddenly, and striding out of the room: On the table was the food he'd ordered, untouched. She watched him leave, then turned to her friend. "Wait a minute, Beverly. I've been wanting to talk to you about what happened, but we've both been so busy since I got back."

The green eyes registered wariness: She wondered why. Why so defensive? "About what?"

About what, indeed. "About Selasdana. I'd like to talk about Selasdana."

Her friend's face stiffened slightly. "It's all in the reports. What else is there to talk about?"

_Will. I want to know what's wrong with Will._ "You went with the search party to Selasdana. Tell me what happened there."

Beverly waved her hand dismissively. "My report's in the file, too. You've read it lots of times by now, surely."

Reluctance, and behind that, resistance. "Tell me, anyway. I want to hear it from you," she asked. "Please, Beverly."

Her friend looked at her a long moment. Sinking back down into the chair, finally. "Well ... All right," she said, at last. Settling back into the seat, brushing the titian hair away from her face. The green eyes grew distant, as if looking upon another scene, and suddenly filled with tears, the shiny drops splashing down from her lashes onto her cheeks.

"There were - so many bodies, so many bodies," Beverly half-gasped, half-cried, pressing her fingers hard to her lips a long moment, before going on. "When we arrived at the Outpost, they were already dead, there was nothing I could do. Forty-six of them, all in Federation uniforms. They were laying here and there, some on top of each other, as if they'd just dropped where they were, right at their posts. A lot of them were young. Very young. Looking so natural, so - fresh. . Only they were too still. Too still. If only one - If I could have saved - one. But they were all - they were all - They looked - I swear, Deanna, they looked - like they were just sleeping. As if any minute, they'd wake up and walk away. But they were dead." She stopped again, voice choking on her grief.

She leaned forward and touched her friend's hand. Beverly glanced at her through a sheen of tears, waving her hand after a minute and taking a deep breath, then another, speaking finally, in a somewhat steadier voice. "They never had a chance. They were completely defenseless, their shields dropped, weapons useless, as you've heard us say - puzzle over - at the meetings." Shrugging and shaking her head. "That's about it," Beverly said, brushing the tears from her face with her long, fine fingers.

"What about the Rhaenns?"

The expression on the other woman's face changed, green eyes darkening, as she nodded. "Yes, that was awful," Beverly said, in a low voice. "Utterly savage! Imagine, Deanna. Imagine seeing someone you love sliced slowly to bits in front of your eyes, imagine waiting, even wishing, for his death. I say his, because T' Prianne Rhaenn is - _was_ Vulcan, she could have easily released her spirit anytime and left her body, all that horror, behind whenever she wanted. Instead, it looked as though Eric Rhaenn lived quite a long time, and she held out until his passing."

She shuddered, remembering the visual, and Will's reaction to it. "Do you have any idea why whoever did it killed them like that?"

Beverly was brushing away the last of her tears, looked up at her. "Me? No. Maybe the others ... Jean-Luc, Will, God knows they've been thick as thieves since then, since Selasdana."

So she hadn't been the only one to have noticed it. "You all went together to Selasdana?" Details she already knew, but perhaps she could uncover something in the re-telling.

"Yes, the five of us, Jean-Luc, Will, Data, Worf, myself. We started out at the Outpost, that's where most of the deceased were located. We were in a hurry, Jean-Luc wanted us to finish up fast there and get searching for the killers, he and Will went ahead to the Rheann home to find the last two bodies there, while we completed our work at the Outpost. I finished my work at the outpost, left Data and Worf to complete their investigation, and went to the house. When I arrived, Jean-Luc came and took me to the - where the Rhaenns' remains were in the residence. Then Worf called down with the message from the Transport Captain, that no one had left with his ship, basically confirming to us that there were still five people missing, the four officers and the girl. Jean-Luc left me with the Rhaenn's bodies, then we all met up again and returned to the ship."

"Wait a minute: what about Will? You said the Captain came to lead you to the Rhaenn's bodies. What about Will, where was he?"

Beverly shrugged. "Oh, I don't know, exactly. Somewhere in the house, I suppose." Pausing, the green eyes looking around as if trying to recall. "I remember him being quiet when he joined us afterwards, looking really awful, as if he were just devastated. He'd had dinner with the Rhaenns the night before, so naturally, it hit him hardest of all. I assumed he needed time to be alone. Why, what are you thinking?" Her friend's eyes were still slightly reddened, but completely dry now, and looking curiously at her.

"That I missed something terribly important. It may sound strange to you, but I wish I had been there." She leaned forward. "Thank you. You helped me see what happened."

Beverly smiled, slightly. "Thank you for making me talk about it. I think I really needed that cry, Counselor." Pausing for a moment, biting her lip thoughtfully, gazing at her. "This whole thing's affected Jean-Luc, Deanna ... shaken him deeply."

"Shaken him?"

"I can't explain it. It's just a feeling I get. Like he blames himself for what's happened." Beverly shrugged again. "I also get the feeling that Jean-Luc's been - protecting Will, somehow, since then, since Selasdana."

Perhaps that was what she had been sensing. "Protecting him from what?"

"I don't know." Her friend smiled gently at her. "_You_ tell _me_ what's going on inside their heads lately, I haven't got a clue."

That was just it: She couldn't.

[* * *]

She was stepping into the lift the next morning when the communicator signaled; she felt the warp engines engaging at the same instant. "Counselor Troi to the bridge."

"On my way," she replied, instructing the turbolift: "Bridge." Around her, as the lift instantly accelerated to its destination, she sensed it: They were gearing up for something - something big.

The doors were sliding open, and she stepped out onto the bridge. Will was standing in front of the viewscreen, looking over Data's shoulder at the comm panels. She started down the ramp and saw the Captain, sitting low in his chair, legs crossed, one hand covering his mouth. He turned and, seeing her, was straightening, tugging his tunic down.

"We've intercepted a Rebel cruiser," he said, turning away, as she sat down next to him; clearly signaling that he didn't want to hear anything from her at the moment.

She focused her thoughts instead on what he had told her: They were chasing a Rebel ship. According to the intelligence reports they'd received, there weren't many of them. The entire Rebel fleet numbered certainly less than a hundred, even fifty seemed like an outside number, a ragtag bunch of mostly stolen ships, as well as old merchant ships from their own Corridor fleet that had been retrofitted for battle, although they had been hearing rumors of some newer battleships being acquired recently. And yet, even out of fifty, what were the chances that the one they were about to encounter had the five missing people from Selasdana? Still, if they could talk ... Even less chance of that, she knew. But she had to be ready. If they did have the hostages, that meant there would be negotiations. The main element in negotiating any deal was to remain calm, and focused on the objective, which was to get the hostages back safely. The Quarain had been merchants before all of the conflicts had begun, surely they understood the art of the deal. This would be a trade, of sorts, the hostages for - for what? What could the _Enterprise_ offer that the Rebels would want?

The room was silent. The Captain had leaned back in his chair again, and hadn't moved, since speaking to her when she first arrived. She felt the tension level increasing, tightening the base of her spine.

"The Rebel vessel is within visual range, Captain," Worf was calling out; she was jolted by the sound of his voice, and yet at the same time relieved that the silence was broken at last.

The Captain, elbows on armrests, was pressing his fingertips together. "Commander Riker has the conn," he said.

"On screen, Mr. Worf," Will ordered, crisply: From the quick handing-off, it was clear they had decided on that course of action beforehand; this was Will's mission to carry out.

On the viewscreen appeared a flattish opaque dot: The Rebel ship, far enough away to be insignificant-looking against the vast panorama of black space sprinkled with stars.

"Magnify by ten, Mr. Data," Will said, looking up at the viewscreen.

The ship increased measurably on the screen, to the size of a child's toy. It clearly wasn't a battleship, or hadn't been built as one; judging by the looks of it, the vessel had once been a pleasure cruiser, visibly stripped of its fancy ornamentation, but still looking like the kind of ostentatious riding vehicle used mainly in and around resort planets, refitted for its current use.

"Don't lose her," Will said. His voice, carrying across the bridge, was tightly controlled, his feet firmly planted, fists closed; his stance, his voice, everything, told how utterly set and determined he was on catching the quarry he was pursuing.

"We are within hailing distance, Sir," Worf was calling out.

"Acknowledged," Will replied, without looking around.

The Captain stirred in his seat. "What are their weapons, Mr. Worf?"

"Class III phasers, Sir," came Worf's reply. "They cannot penetrate our shields."

"Are we within close striking distance of them?" Will asked.

"They are coming within that range now, Sir," Worf replied, looking at his panels.

Will nodded, to the viewscreen. "All right, let's get a little closer, then. Helmsman, keep our speed at warp nine. Shadow their moves: If they itch, we scratch, understand?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Shields up, weapons up, full array," Will ordered.

The stance surprised her. Class III phasers were peashooters compared to their own weapons. Why were they gearing up as if for full-scale battle, when it was perfectly clear the other ship couldn't possibly harm them?

Will was turning and looking back at the Weapons Officer. "Your target painted, Mr. Worf? Have we got them in our sights?"

"Yes, Sir," came the reply.

Will nodded. "Good. Mr. Data, getting anything on your scanners?"

"Not yet, Sir. We will be within short range sensor -"

"Understood," Will interrupted.

Silence fell again. Closer and closer they were coming to the ship, bearing down, closing at an alarming rate, going full out, almost as if they were planning to ram the little vessel.

"Open a hailing frequency, Mr. Worf," Will said.

At last! she thought, relieved. For a moment there, she had wondered if they were just going to blow that ridiculously small and defenseless ship right out of the sky without so much as a warning. But of course, Will wouldn't do anything like that, how could she even think it was possible?

"Hailing frequency open, Sir."

"This is William Riker, in command of the Federation Star Ship _Enterprise_. Captain of the cruiser, stop and identify yourself, and prepare to be boarded," Will declared.

Silence; there was no reply. Even knowing not to expect one, her heart sank in dismay.

"Captain of the cruiser. Stop and prepare to be boarded." Will was turning to look at Worf. "Stand by to fire phasers."

"Standing by."

Will nodded. "On my signal."

She looked from Will to the Captain, her alarm increasing: What was going on here? But Jean-Luc was sitting back in his chair, eyes half-closed, as if he were watching a story visual, and not the imminent destruction of a defenseless little Rebel ship. She was starting to rise to go to Will - The Captain lay his hand on her wrist, a cool glance from the grey eyes moving her to keep her seat.

"Captain of the cruiser, this is your final warning," Will was saying, turning to Data. "Any of our people on that ship?"

"No, Sir."

Will lifted his head sharp and straight. "Then take your readings for posterity, Mr. Data," he declared. Looking at Worf, he nodded, as he turned back to the viewscreen. "Ready, - Shields up."

The little ship had exploded into a ball of flames, the shock wave a moment later rolling under them, rocking the ship up and back slightly, like a wave's heavy swell, righting itself immediately afterwards. On the viewscreen, bits of metal and other, more grisly debris floated toward them, bouncing gently off their shields, all that was left of the Rebel cruiser, the entire scene playing out in silence.

"Mr. Data," the Captain inquired, after a long moment, from the depths of his chair. He hadn't moved during the entire action, except for the touch of her wrist.

Data looked up from his comm panels. "The ship's core exploded, Captain. It appears to have been deliberate."

Will was looking around at Worf. "Damage report, Mr. Worf."

Worf checked his panels again. "No damage to the _Enterprise_, Sir."

"All right. Return us to normal status," the Captain ordered. "Prepare to resume our previous search pattern, helmsman." He was standing, tugging his tunic down. "Excellent work, everyone," he said, looking around the room, then directly at his Second-in-Command. "A textbook execution, Commander. Well done."

"Thank you, Captain," Will replied, accepting the Captain's commendation.

The Captain was nodding and looking away. "Mr. Worf, forward the entire incident report to Federation headquarters. Helmsman?"

"Ready to resume our previous course, Sir."

The Captain lifted his finger. "Engage," he ordered, and he was starting away, leaving the room. "You have the bridge, Number One."

"Yes, Sir." Will walked over to the Captain's chair, and took his seat. He looked out at the viewscreen ahead. Finally, he was turning to look at her. "What is it, Counselor?"

She realized then, that she had been staring at him. "I was just - thinking about what happened, Sir," she replied. "This was all very - unexpected."

He nodded, absently, as if he hadn't quite heard her to the end, and turned back to the viewscreen, his eyes fixed on some distant point in the space beyond.

_What I'm thinking is that, I don't know why this happened - and therefore, I don't know you. I don't know the man who just confronted that Rebel ship. After all these years of being so very, very close to you, to your heart and soul, I don't know you anymore. I don't know you, and that's terrifying to me. _

The Will Riker I knew - is gone.

.


	13. PT ONE, Ch 12 -- The Message

12. The Message

"You're wasting your time and mine, Picard."

He gathered his patience. "Admiral ... Perhaps, if I knew why this order was given, why no one's being allowed on Selasdana, why it's been quarantined -"

Schoenhutt's jowls quivered. "This is your greatest flaw as a Federation officer, Picard. You cannot just accept orders, you must constantly challenge them. I can certainly understand why some around here question the depth of your commitment."

This came as a real slap. "If the Board has lost confidence in me -"

"It's rather late for that. You know perfectly well we need every experienced man out there right now." The blue eyes turned even frostier. "You lack the grounds for pride, Picard. Look at you: You can't even admit you were wrong about the Rebellion, can you? And look where it got Selasdana, and your friends, the Rhaenns." Stopping him cold.

The Admiral nodded. "The order stands: Permission denied as to your request to return to Selasdana. Continue your search, concentrate on finding the _Chameleon_, that must be your first priority."

"But -" Working to restrain his tone of desperation. "Admiral, I think our time would be better spent -"

"No."

He bowed his head a moment. _Stay calm, stay calm; it was your temper that got us here in the first place._ He looked up. "Admiral, as you know, we believe that it was the _Chameleon_ who took our people hostage at Selasdana. We had hoped to flush out the _Chameleon_ by moving aggressively against the Rebel fleet, challenging any of their ships we might come across while we conducted our search-and-rescue mission. So far we've met up with two Rebel ships, both of them choosing to destroy themselves before we could even board them, much less interrogate their crews. And in the face of these ships' destruction, there's been no trace at all of the _Chameleon_. It is clearly fruitless to continue -"

The Admiral's eyes glowed. "Fruitless, did you say? Ah, no, Picard, as always I'm forced to disagree with you. Your two _are_ a piddling amount, I agree, especially for the time spent. But the other ships I've sent in have made up for your paltry effort. Over twenty Rebel ships have been destroyed since I sent the fleet into that quadrant - as we should have done from the outset. But you tied my hands: The Council chose to ignore me, persuaded by your arguments, and I was forced to send you in alone. Hah! I was absolutely right, wasn't I? The Rebels would never have dared to attack Ariana and Selasdana if you had come in as part of a flotilla as I had proposed."

And the thought had tortured him since: In arguing successfully against a large Federation presence in the Corridor for fear of stirring up a confrontation with the Romulans, had he caused the deaths on Ariana, the death and destruction on Selasdana, including the torture-slayings of the Rhaenns and the loss of the missing five, Will's wife with them, would more ships, as Schoenhutt had planned, have served as a deterrent? Had he misjudged his ability to carry out that mission in any way that wouldn't end in tragedy? Or - or was there, as an inner voice kept insisting, something else, something more behind all this? Something he could only find out on Selasdana.

"Admiral," he said, quietly. "I want to go back to Selasdana. I believe there may be evidence there as to what transpired before we arrived, that might give us a clearer understanding of the entire situation. A thorough investigation would -"

Schoenhutt frowned. "No."

"But - if you could at least tell me why -"

"My decision is final." The Admiral leaned forward, his narrowed eyes filling the screen. "Learn to obey orders, Captain. Do your duty, or I _will_ bring you up on charges."

[* * *]

"Bring you up on charges?" The green eyes snapped, Beverly's face pale with sudden rage. "Boy, that is the limit! What is it exactly that you are supposed to have done wrong?"

He had let the details of his discussion with the Admiral slip to Beverly, now he had cause to regret it. Even though they had been discussing his frustrated attempts to gain permission to travel to Selasdana, he should have known his friend would focus instead on the perceived slights and insults against him, unimportant as they were. And he was conscious of doing just what he had warned Will against:, opening possible avenues for dissent among his officers. "Oh! I argued a little too vigorously for allowing us to go back to Selasdana. Never mind; he's under the same strain we all are. Worse, in his position."

"Oh, yes!" She nodded, speaking in a mocking tone, rare for her, which showed the extent of her anger. "What a terrible awful strain the Admiral must be under, prosecuting this war! That bloodthirsty bastard! Allowing the Rebels to slaughter themselves, knowing full well they won't allow themselves to be taken alive."

He started to interrupt her - then decided to let her go ahead and vent, feeling very little energy, and even less will, with which to stop her. Leaning back in his chair, with a sigh and rubbing his eyes. "My God, what a botch this has all been."

"It _isn't_ your fault, Jean-Luc -"

He opened his eyes, looked at her. The color flying up into her cheeks showed she was conscious of having spoken too quickly. "I'm glad to know it."

Her expression changed instantly again to anger. "Oh, don't misconstrue what I said, for Heaven's sakes! I only meant that you've been blaming yourself all along for this whole horrible mess, when in reality you've only been following orders, and even more to the point, this whole thing could have been avoided had Star Fleet not chosen to send us out here. How can any of this be your fault, I'd like to know?"

If only he could find some solace in that. He knew better, and looked away. Pretending to misunderstand the real meaning of her question, he shrugged. "I have questioned myself after each encounter. Under the circumstances, what could have been done differently? Each time after we've chased one of these ships to its self-imposed destruction, I go over every step and try to think if there was any way to have avoided that outcome."

"Of course not," she replied, firmly; her tone implying, I believe in you and stand behind you, Jean-Luc Picard.

Inwardly he frowned at her fierce defense. Coming out of a friendship so deeply felt, she was at a disadvantage, and further, she didn't know all that he knew. But it was time to change the subject: He forced himself to smile slightly. "You know, when you came in here, I could have sworn you were happy, or looked it, anyway."

The secret glow he had seen on her earlier returned to her cheeks. "Oh! Just something I suspect is going on, which makes me feel, well, hopeful; life does go on. You must have seen it, too. Or maybe you haven't, you've been so preoccupied."

He lifted his teacup to his mouth, glad that his ploy had been successful. "Mm? What's that?"

Beverly's face broke into a wide smile, the green eyes shining. How long since he had seen that lovely sight?

"Well, our friends Deanna Troi and Will Riker. It looks very much as though they may be falling in love again, or at least, - Jean-Luc, where are you going?"

He had gotten up and crossed the room, blindly. He looked around; he was standing at the replicator. He turned back to her, after a moment.

"My tea's cold. Would you like another cup?"

[* * *]

He_ had_ been preoccupied. But now that Beverly had called his attention to it, he could easily see what she'd been alluding to that day in his rooms: He couldn't help but see it now.

And she was right. He saw the couple together very often, now, walking down the corridors, or sharing a table in Ten-Forward, looking into each other's eyes, sometimes touching hands. Once or twice, returning late to his quarters, he saw his First Officer leaving the Counselor's quarters.

_Will back with Deanna._ Could things get any more complicated? What about the girl he had married on Selasdana, Anna Rhaenn? Had Will finally given up on finding her alive, had that hope been too tenuous, too painful, to sustain as the months had passed without any sign of her? Certainly there was little to reproach in the other man's conduct. This mysterious wife of his had disappeared after only one night, had been missing for a long time now, deep in the young man's heart he had to have known even at the beginning of their search that the probability of finding Anna and the others were near zero. How long before the images of her cleared, like a fever nightmare, from his mind, his heart, how long before a vigorous, loving temperament succumbed to nearer, familiar, and still strongly felt, affectioms? How long could any man resist seeking relief from such agony, especially if there were willing arms near by waiting and eager to comfort him? It would only be natural for Will to return to Deanna, they'd been lovers years before, although the relationship had ended long prior to their coming, separately, to the _Enterprise_.

Though it surprised him, he had to admit. Nothing before would have made him suspect Will of having an inconstant heart. The younger man's warm affections, though quickly given, had always been deep and true, as far as he had been able to judge. On the other hand, he _had_ put Deanna aside in a night to marry Anna, if anything could be made of that. And the way Will had cried, agonized, that day on Selasdana, had convinced him that though his young friend had married hastily, there was no doubt he was deeply, passionately, in love with the woman he had taken as his wife.

Beverly had opened his eyes, all right. He could understand why she believed as she did, when he saw the couple together. And, he almost believed it, too at first. Will and Deanna did give every appearance of being lovers again. Yet if it was Beverly's notions of a blooming romance between the two that had made him conscious of their behavior towards one another, then in forcing him to observe them more closely, he began to see the situation in a different light altogether.

In Deanna's case, there could be no doubt whatever of her feelings. Just looking at her radiant face, the way her eyes glowed whenever Will Riker was in the room made it evident to anyone who saw her that she adored him: Even her voice changed, suffusing with a tenderness and satisfaction that bespoke her heart's fullness.

But what Will felt towards Deanna wasn't as clear. One day in Ten Forward, he noticed the couple sitting at a nearby table, looking deeply into each other's eyes, holding hands. The sight produced a mixture of feelings in him, awe and embarrassment, irritation and bewilderment; but before he could look away, he saw the other man's eyes shifting off from Deanna's face, and out into the endless space beyond the glass, searching, searching each and every point of light out there. As if for some sign of his missing wife? Will was holding Deanna's hands tightly: And yet it seemed to him as if Will was clutching onto her, as a man would hold to a lifeboat, lost and desperate, trying not to let go, as if he were afraid of drowning in his own, unrelenting misery.

And when they were on the bridge together, the question was certainly answered in the other man's work. His Second-in-Command's days were dedicating solely to finding Anna Rhaenn Riker, his moment-to-moment purpose thinking about where she might be, and taking the ship there, or anywhere else Rebels might be found. Where once he had worried that Will Riker might find their putting down of the Rebellion too distasteful a mission to carry out, he now saw a man fully dedicated to seeking out and destroying the people he suspected of kidnapping, perhaps killing, his beloved young wife. There was no rest in that mind that he could see, no comfort, no forgetting, ever the woman that he had married. In a heart and mind so consumed, no other woman could possibly enter. Will was possessed, all right, but not with love for Deanna.

No: Will hadn't yet forgotten Anna Rhaenn Riker.

[* * *]

They were gathered for a full staff meeting; he had come to the realization that it was time, and past time, to review their mission objectives. Time to take a hard look at what they were doing and discuss their options. Time as well, perhaps, for his Second-in-Command to begin to face the realities of their situation.

Geordi LaForge reported first on the status of the ship: She'd been untouched in the encounters with the Rebel ships and capable of chasing their vessels indefinitely. The rest of the fleet, as well, had reported minor or no damages.

Worf spoke next: The number of Rebel ships self-destructed, how many of their encampments destroyed, how many refugee camps searched, planets scanned, Federation ships deployed, what massive resources were being brought to bear against the Rebel forces, even now, when it seemed clear they were nearly at the war's end.

Beverly followed with a report on casualties; Rebel casualties, of course, there had been no Federation injured. They suspected at least eight hundred, and possibly up to a thousand, men had perished on the Rebel ships. And where men had died, women had been widowed, children orphaned, parents left childless; though there was no official report on those souls, it was obvious the numbers must be high.

Deanna had little to report. No intelligence had been gleaned from any of the encounters with the Rebels, no ships or Rebels captured, no women in the camps willing to cooperate against their men. There had been no contact with the Rebel leaders, nor was the Federation seeking any talks. On this ship, as well as the rest of the fleet, morale remained moderately high.

It was Data's turn to speak. The Rebels' fleet had dwindled down to twelve ships, it was believed, which meant probably less than two hundred fighting men were left alive. The news was at once shocking, and heart-wrenching, and they all fell silent at the grim statistic.

"Only a dozen ships left," he murmured, after a moment.

"That is not an exact figure, Sir," Data added, taking his out-loud musing as a factual question.

He smiled, shortly: "No, and does it matter whether the figure is exactly eleven or thirteen?" The android looked rather humanly perplexed at his question. "Never mind, Mr. Data." He remembered, suddenly, the last meeting. "I believe the last time we met here, just before the attack on Selasdana, you told us you had an opinion regarding the Rebellion. Would you care to share that opinion with us now?"

Data's eyes seemed to glow, as if pleased he had remembered; of course, he was imagining it, the android had no feelings.

"Sir, at the time the order was given to send our ship into the Corridor, it appeared that the Federation had made the decision that territory was worth holding onto at any price, including the complete annihilation of its inhabitants. In my opinion, no such paradigm exists within the parameters of the Prime Directive, and therefore the Federation's actions could not be justified."

"A paradox, isn't it, Data?" LaForge nodded. "There's an old human saying from a long-ago little war on Earth: 'It became necessary to destroy the town in order to save it.' Looks like we've destroyed the Corridor in order to save it from the Romulans. That's if the Romulans ever really wanted it."

"That's easy to say now," Beverly said. "That may be what it looks like in hindsight. But in the beginning, well." She shrugged. "Who knew all this would happen?"

Data turned to her. "Do you mean the Federation did not consider the possibility of the Corridor's destruction as one of the outcomes if the Federation did not give up its claim?" The golden eyes flicked up, as if to process the information. "Your theory does not seem plausible, Doctor. All indications pointed to warfare with the Federation if a settlement was not reached, a war the Quarain were clearly not equal to, but were nevertheless willing to undertake. In view of the fact that a majority of the Quarain fighters are now dead, most or all of the women and children relocated to refugee camps in the Klingon system and unwilling to return, the Corridor largely abandoned with only Federation Outposts and colonists as the primary inhabitants, I believe I was correct in my initial assessment."

"Your opinion regarding the Federation's policy toward the Rebellion is more in the nature of a philosophical question, Mr. Data," he replied. "Our behavior toward the Quarain will be thoroughly debated in years to come, I'm sure."

"As those questions always are," LaForge added, sounding glum. "And yet we seem to make the same mistakes over and over."

"Because each new circumstance looks sufficiently different from previous ones to persuade us that it is," Deanna said. "It is human nature to be optimistic, even unreasonably optimistic, when assessing their chances for success in any venture they decide to pursue."

"Each time we think this time is going to be different," Beverly added, musing. "It's sort of like falling in love, I suppose."

"And then your heart gets broke again," LaForge rejoined. "I wonder if we'll ever learn."

Optimism and love. He suddenly saw himself as others would see him, a Captain who allowed such wide-ranging, free-wheeling discussions at his staff meetings. Never mind; it was his way and he was perfectly comfortable with it, having learned its usefulness; giving his people the freedom to think out loud seemed to energize their creative processes.

He looked over at his Second-in-Command. Will had sat quietly through the discussion, listening to the others. "Commander, let's hear from you," he said. This would be almost the last word, ranking second only to his.

Will looked up. Meeting each pair of eyes around the table with his own, a dampened, haunted blue, holding Deanna's a second longer than the others, perhaps. Back to him, in the now-intense silence.

"The Rebels must be under tremendous pressure, Captain," he said, in a low, though even and controlled, voice. "Their fleet, such as it was, has been decimated. By their own hand, for what reasons we can only guess at. Whatever the basis, it seems clear they badly miscalculated by destroying themselves as they did. And whatever their motivations may have been, their situation is now desperate, their options limited: Do they continue to kill themselves, blow up what few ships they have left? Do they turn and stand for a last-ditch, unwinnable fight? Do they try for a negotiated peace? Or do they simply surrender? In a corner this tight, it's impossible to know which way they'll turn. In my opinion, it would be a waste of time to try and guess what they're going to do. And in any event their decision shouldn't affect our actions. Our path was decided by what happened at Selasdana. Unless the Rebels completely and unconditionally surrender, unless they give up the hostages, or do something else to show they intend to stop this fight on our terms, we must continue to pursue and destroy what's left of their fleet. To change our policy for any other reason would be absolute wrong strategy, with catastrophic consequences. Looking beyond the Rebellion, any vacillation now on our part would doubtless be interpreted as weakness of purpose, or worse, by any of those other adversaries who may be watching, including the Romulans, and we've learned that we can't afford to look weak, not if we want to avoid situations like this in the future." Again he looked slowly around the table, looking at him at last, straight into his eyes. "We have no other choice. We must go on, Captain. We must finish what we started. That's my recommendation."

No one spoke. He had expected some outcry from the others, a plea for mercy on the Rebels' behalf. No. Will Riker, speaking a few words from the accumulated knowledge and experience of his years, the logic of his trained and agile mind, the courage of his heart, the depths of his soul, had persuaded them all into silent agreement. Brilliant. He doubted if he could have done the same.

"Agreed. If there's no further -"

"Captain to the bridge."

He stood immediately and was leading the way out of the room, Will, Deanna, Data and Worf following him through the door onto the bridge, the others returning to their posts.

"Report, Mr. Data," he said as he walked across the room toward his chair.

Data had already moved into his seat. "Rebel cruiser on our scanners, Sir, heading toward the Neutral Zone, speed warp nine."

"Warp nine?" Will was turning to look at him. "Sounds like a real ship this time."

Yes. It was what they had begun to hear from intelligence reports and analysis, that what was left of the Rebel fleet was being held out for last, and that these were real battle cruisers, the best of their ships, regrouping possibly, for a final battle. His heart began to beat hard. "Plot a course, helmsman. Warp nine."

"Plotted, Sir. Warp nine."

"Engage." He thrust his finger forward. "Will we catch them before they enter the Neutral Zone, Mr. Data?"

"No, Sir, not at the current rate of speed."

Propelling Will out of his chair. "Give it all you got," his Second-in-Command said, walking toward the helmsman. "Don't let them get away. What kind of a ship is it, Data?"

"Centauri, Gamma Class, Sir. Gamma class phasers and torpedoes."

His Second-in-Command glanced at him, eyes sharp. "Looks like they came ready to play."

He stood, looking up at the stars on the viewscreen as he walked forward. "What are they doing, Mr. Data?"

"Running full bore toward the Neutral Zone, Captain."

Will was at Data's shoulder. "Any way we can catch them, Data?"

"No, Sir, not before they enter the Neutral Zone." The android looked up. "There is something ..."

Will's eyes were raking the golden face. "What?"

Data looked around at him. "Sir, we can not catch them. But we could possibly intercept them. However, it would mean going through the Neutral Zone ourselves. By swinging through the Neutral Zone at this point, we could come out in front of them here, thereby -"

"Heading them off at the pass," Will said, looking at him, then turning to Deanna. "Counselor: Remember what you said about us going into the Neutral Zone."

Deanna hesitated, her dark eyes widening, before she spoke. "Captain, we can enter the Neutral Zone for the limited purposes of an attempted rescue mission, provided we give notice of our intentions, there's strong precedent for that. But -"

He raised his hand, interrupting her, nodding at Will, who was turning instantly to Data. "Do it," his Second-in-Command ordered. "Plot your intercept course."

"Minimal intrusion into the Neutral Zone, helmsman," he cautioned to add. "Mr. Worf, prepare to advise the Romulans with respect to our intentions, on my order. Mr. Data?"

"Plotted, Sir. At our current speed, we'll be in and out in twenty seconds, on your mark."

He raised his finger. "Engage."

A moment later, Data raised his head. "We have penetrated the Neutral Zone, Captain. Sixteen seconds to Neutral Zone exit."

"We have the ship on visual, Sir," Worf called to him.

"She's yours, Number One." He nodded to his Second-in-Command; unless forced to intervene, this was still Will's mission to lead, regardless of location. The Commander looked over his shoulder at Worf. "Let's see them."

The ship appeared on screen. A large, sleek battle cruiser, its weapons array bristling forward and aft. "It's a nasty one, I think," he murmured. "They might give us a fight."

"Weapons up, shields up. On your toes, Mr. Worf," Will called.

"Twelve seconds to Neutral Zone exit," Data interjected.

The Rebel ship suddenly appeared to turn, as if swinging around to face them.

"They're taking an offensive posture, Sir." Worf called out. "Weapons are powering up."

"Eight seconds to Neutral Zone exit," Data said.

"If they take a shot at us, execute evasive maneuvers," his Second-in-Command said. "Keep on our target, helm, but get us the hell out of here," Will ordered. "We don't want any shooting in the NZ if we can help it."

"Five … four … three -" Data was counting down: In another moment, they'd be out.

On the viewscreen in front of them, a Romulan warbird suddenly uncloaked between their ship and the Rebel cruiser. He stood instantly. "Full stop."

"Full stop, Captain." He felt the ship powering down from warp nine to zero in the time it took to instruct the engines.

"The Romulan ship is hailing us, Sir," Worf said to him.

"Are we out of the Neutral Zone, Mr. Data?" he asked.

"One parsec within the border, Sir," Data replied.

One. Only one parsec. But still, one parsec inside. He looked for a moment at Will, before turning to return to his seat. There was nothing else for it. They'd taken the chance, now they'd have to face the consequences. "On screen," he said, as he was sitting down.

A Romulan appeared on the viewscreen, exuding, as they all did, a vast self-confidence, and in this young one, even more arrogance than usual. His face wore a look of barely disguised disgust evidently at the appearance of the inferior beings before him.

"Why, whatever is the _Enterprise_ doing in the Neutral Zone? Surely, there must be some grave mistake here, Captain." The gallant words spoken in a poisonously unctuous tone to him.

"Stand aside, Commander," Will shot back, stepping forward. "We're on a rescue mission and you're interfering with it."

Despite the danger, deep inside himself, he smiled at the moxie. The Romulan's demon-arched eyebrows rose even higher, looking from his First Officer back to him.

"Do you allow this underling to speak for you, Captain?" Spoken contemptuously.

"The Commander is in charge of the rescue mission," he coolly replied, nodding toward his Executive Officer.

The other Captain's eyes narrowed, as he turned in Will's direction. "Who is it you're attempting to rescue?" The Romulan's sharp tone suggesting his deep displeasure at having to deal with someone of lesser consequence than himself.

"We'll discuss that with the Captain of that ship behind you," his Second-in-Command retorted. "If he'll come out from hiding behind your skirts."

"Commander Rotan." A disembodied voice came through the viewscreen, drawing the Romulan's attention.

Deanna turned to him, surely feeling at he was, shocked to hear the voice: "It has to be the Rebel Captain," she murmured, in agreement with his own conclusion.

"Rotan, you may inform these Federation butchers that we have nothing of theirs aboard our ship. They, however, have stolen and kept something very valuable from us: Our lands and our freedom."

Will stiffened; what he could see of the Commander's profile was red with fury. "Show your face, Rebel coward!"

The other voice spoke no more. The Romulan Captain, Rotan, raised his chin. "You're so-called rescue mission is over, _Enterprise_. Leave the Neutral Zone immediately."

"Not without boarding and searching their ship," Will snapped back.

The visual changed to the outside of the Romulan warbird. Five more warbirds suddenly uncloaked, three flanking the Rebel cruiser.

He stood, and was walking toward the viewscreen. "We will take the Captain-Pilot's word of honor that he has nothing aboard his ship that belongs to the Federation, if he will take back a message to his superiors: This is more than a mission for us, Captain. We will never stop in our quest, until what is ours is returned to us." He nodded. "Now, if you gentlemen will kindly move yourselves - Oh, Commander Rotan."

The Romulan Captain appeared again on the screen.

"Commander, for the record: What were _you_ doing in the Neutral Zone?"

The Romulan leaned back in his chair. "Very simple, Captain. We happened to be close by when our receptors picked up your notice of intent to rescue, and we came to assist you in your attempt."

"Ah." He nodded. "All six of you. Well, I'm glad that's cleared up. We wouldn't want there to be any misunderstandings about why the lot of you were doing in here, would we?"

Rotan's lips curled into a faint smile. "I am not afraid of your misunderstandings, Captain. Let me be even more clear: We have been watching your conflict with the Quarain with a great deal of interest. Like any true sportsman, our natural sympathies are with the underdog. However, our inclination at this point is to watch from the sidelines, and let the contest play itself out. We may eventually get around to pursuing our interests in this sector, but, not just yet."

The screen blinked back to the outside of the warbird: The Rebel ship was gone. A moment later, the warbirds disappeared. Data turned to him.

"Captain, the notice of intent was -"

"Never sent out, I know, Mr. Data. He blatantly lied, and he didn't care if we knew it." Turning to Will. "That little Rotan was too eager by half, I think. His superiors won't like his having given away this evidence of their collaboration with the Rebellion." He looked at his Second in Command. "The Rebel Captain knew the Romulan's name: Rotan."

Will nodded, as if he'd been thinking the same thing. "More proof the Romulans and Rebels are working together."

"Yes," he agreed. "Clearly, they were here to meet the Rebel ship. Helmsman, plot a course. Get us out of here." He lifted a finger. "Engage. And see if you can track that Rebel vessel. The Rebel Captain will pass on that message, I have no doubt, Number One," he said, looking again at his Second-in-Command. "The question is, what will happen after that."

The younger man was watching the stars warp away from them a moment, before turning to look at him. Eyes haunted again. "Let's hope - _pray_ - for some word."


	14. PT ONE, Ch 13 -- The Birthday

13. The Hostage

The door signaled at Will Riker's private quarters, where he was working at his desk. He ignored the signal, deep into what he was looking at on the screen.

This pattern was revealing something to him, there was something there ... This particular star system, -

The door signaled again.

Wait ... this was where many of the Rebel ships had been intercepted, coming in and out of this system ... There could be a base hidden somewhere in there ... or something else of interest to them ...

He brought up the system map on his screen. "Computer, activate Riker search program 'Rebellion.'"

The door signaled again. Whoever it was wasn't going to go away. Impatient at the interruption, he stood and went quickly to the door, determined to send whoever was there away and get on with what he was doing.

Deanna was standing there, with a covered tray in her hands. He remembered suddenly. His birthday, she had insisted -

"I'd forgotten all about this," he said, reaching to take the tray from her, stepping aside so that she could come in.

"I was beginning to think the computer had lied to me and you weren't here," she said, with a smile. She was looking around. "Were you busy, did I interrupt something?"  
He lay the tray on the table. "Just a second," he said, and started toward his work screen. "Computer, did you find anything?"  
"Search completed. There are no indications of current Rebel activity in this system."

He looked the screen over; nothing, not a sign, within the program's parameters. "Damn it!"

He was starting to sit down at the desk again, but then remembered Deanna. She had lifted the lid from her tray, was busy setting out plates. There was a cake, and off to one side, a gift- wrapped package. Well, he had agreed to this, remember.

"Oh, Deanna," he had protested, some days ago, when she had brought up the subject. "Really, thank you. I just don't feel - "

But she had shaken her head. "No party. Just a private celebration. Come on, it's your birthday. You've been working so hard, it might be good to take a break for a bit. Recharge your batteries."

And afterwards come back at the effort with fresh eyes? She might have a point. He had given in with a sigh. "As long as there isn't a party."

But there was no getting away from his friends' kind attentions. The Captain had started things off in the morning with "a little gift," as he called it: A rare first edition of "Treasure Island," his favorite book when he was a little boy. Jean-Luc had waved it off as nothing, quickly taking his leave when he had begun to express his thanks.

And then each of his friends, throughout the day, had a word and a gift for him. Geordi with some beautiful holograms of the ship he had made, Worf with a new carved cover for his _bat'leh_, Beverly with flowers and a bottle of very good wine, and a hard hug. "You share this with someone later," she said, kissing his cheek, before hurrying away.

Data had given him a painting: That had been the most interesting gift. His friend had posed him on the bridge of a nineteenth-century wooden vessel, sails billowing overhead, ship turning hard into the wind and spray of a typhoon, himself shouting orders down to his straining crew.

"Thank you, Data, that's marvelous. Where'd you get the idea for it?"

"Counselor Troi. She said these should have been your times."

Deanna.

She had brought out two small plates, and two forks, was fussing over the cake. As if sensing his attention, she looked up and smiled, her black eyes sparkling. "Marble fudge. Your favorite."

"You know me too well." Remembering the wine Beverly had given him earlier, he went over to the cooler and fetched the bottle with him back to the table, setting it down. "We need glasses," he said, about to open the bottle, looking around at the cabinet where he kept his wineglasses.

"That can wait. Come on, come on, cut the cake," she said, happily, handing him the knife. He raised it over the confection. The cake was crowded with white chocolate roses, flecked with tiny silver and gold beads, on a fine netting of silver and gold.

_She's not here. Wherever Anna is, she isn't eating fancies. Whatever she's suffering, she's suffering because of me._

He lowered the knife, put it down gently on the table. Looked at Deanna. "I'm sorry. You've gone to a lot of trouble and I appreciate it." She waved her hand at this, as if it weren't important; he knew that it was, and that he was hurting her. But - "I just can't."

He raised his hands to his eyes, pressing his eyeballs with his fingers, to restrain the tears surging up, suddenly, burning hot in his throat, the goading, merciless guilt behind it all, and the terrible not knowing.

_Anna, Anna! Where are you? Christ, it_'_s killing me, not knowing._

He felt her hand on his arm, soothing him like a child, as she had been doing for months now, trying to ease him through his worst moments. Almost, he embraced her again, as he had that day he had gone to apologize for shouting at her. She had looked so kindly at him, and he had fallen back on that kindness, sometimes on a daily basis, grateful for her acceptance of his need, and his silence as to what was behind it. And yet, it had sometimes made him feel even worse, knowing he was being comforted while Anna was - who knew what she could be going through, at the hands of her ruthless captors? He felt sometimes as if he was being driven mad -

"Will," came Deanna's soft voice. "Will, what is it?"  
He broke away and crossed the room to the window. Out there, she was out there, somewhere. To his dying day, he wouldn't stop looking for her. He had to find her. One way or another, alive or - No, she couldn't, she couldn't be -

_I will be with thee, now and forever._

He had replayed those scenes in his mind endless times. Starting with T'Prianne looking over his shoulder at dinner. _William, this is our daughter, Anna Rhaenn._

And there she'd been. He had recognized her immediately, as he had always known he would. He had been waiting for her all of his life.

_My love. _He was imagining looking into her eyes, in some future day. _Do you remember when we met?_

"Of course I remember."

Startled at hearing Deanna's voice, he opened his eyes and turned; he had forgotten she was in the room with him: Without realizing it, he'd spoken aloud.

"We met at the Academy's Graduation Dance. I was there with Brean Elso, he was graduating at the top of his class. And I saw you across the room, in your dress uniform, standing with a beautiful young woman, talking with her and smiling very charmingly. You looked quite the couple."

The scene came clearly into his mind, and the girl she was referring to, young and irritatingly flirtatious. "Keli Maggio, the Commandant's daughter."

"Mmm-hmm. I thought, not a chance he'll notice me, not with that lovely woman at his side. But I kept looking at you."

"And I saw you when you were dancing with Elso," he murmured, his mind slipping back all those years to that long-ago time. "You looked - I can't begin to describe how you looked." The dark eyes radiating a natural warmth, the bright, open expression. She was so young; they had both been so young, and ready to fall in love. The difference between them had been that he had wanted to stay in that phase of their relationship where everything was warm and sensuous and delightfully surprising, like exploring a secret box full of newfound treasures, each one unique, precious and worth lingering over, whereas she had been very quickly ready to move further into a deeper, more serious commitment, and in their extreme happiness together, he had believed he was ready, too, and proposed marriage, which she had accepted. He had been so happy, from that first moment seeing her at the dance. "So beautiful. I couldn't stop looking at you."

She blushed, and laughed. "And finally, -"

"Finally, I excused myself from Keli, and I -"

"And you started walking in my direction. I thought my heart would burst, it was beating so hard." She raised her hand to her chest, and smiled. "I fell in love in that instant," she said.

"I never believed in that sort of thing," he said, brusquely turning away. "Never believed in love at first sight. Never really believed in happily ever after."

And then Anna came along, and "never" turned into "forever."

_I will be with thee, now and forever._

Deanna's eyes were looking into his. "The heart doesn't care what we believe, Will. Love can be something that happens to you unexpectedly, that you feel about another person, whether you believe in love or not."

He nodded. "You're right, you're absolutely right, Deanna. At the time, I didn't understand! I didn't understand why people talked about finding the right one, about falling in love, about marriage and forever after. I do now."

_I will be with thee, now and forever._

He reached for her hand and gripped it tightly in his. "I mean, I see it now. I guess that, for others, falling in love _seemed_ so easy, but because it hadn't happened to me, I thought it wasn't possible, that it would never happen. But it is, isn't it? Easy as your heart beating. And all the rest follows naturally, right? You fall in love, you get married. It's all happiness and joy and flowers on your wedding day. And you think - I thought - But - how can we be so foolish, so careless? How can you swear forever, when you don't know what forever means, Deanna? Is it an eternity or a moment - or a day, that one precious day ... Oh, hell! Of all people, I should know what kind of pain love can inflict! All I had to do was look at my parents! That's why I never wanted to commit myself fully to any one woman, because I never wanted to cause the terrible suffering I saw my mother go through, I never wanted to be the cause of that sort of pain!"

"I understand you, Will. You judged by what you saw in your parents' situation, so you felt the need to be guarded, to not open yourself to reliving what you went through in your own childhood. Well, let's look at your parents' case a little more closely. Yes, your mother must have been terribly lonely and unhappy when your father wasn't there, undoubtedly she was. But, try and remember, if you can, the times when your father came home, surely you must have those kinds of memories stored up too. Try to recall the overwhelming joy your mother felt at seeing your father after those long absences, greater than if she saw him every day. Think of that: Not only did her happiness and excitement override all the accumulated hurt, but the pain of separation must have intensified her pleasure. And that's true for every marriage to some extent. The good times, as well as the bad times, the times of bright hope and promise, of joy and ecstatic love, of heartbreak and disappointment, of learning and faith and renewal, those are what make up the whole of married life together, not just the difficult times you've always chosen to focus on -"

"That's not what I'm talking about, Deanna," he said, shaking his head. "I'm not talking about just the ordinary bad times people go through, anybody can deal with that. I mean when love and commitment and marriage is never-ending pain, and guilt, when love is a - a torture, a chain wrapped tight around your heart. What about when your own thoughtless, selfish actions inflict pain, what about when you hurt her - abandon her, stupidly, foolishly? Then what? Then there's no turning back. It's too late for regrets then. Too late, all too late."

She had listened to him in silence. "You are allowing that pain and those doubts to hold you back, to keep you locked in the past with no possibility of moving on. Your memories continually coming back to stop you from even the potential of giving love and receiving it." She was quiet a moment, her dark eyes looking deep into his. "Is this what's been troubling you all this time?"

"Oh, God, yes," he said, feeling the relief of finally being able to admit it to her. "I'm so sorry, Deanna. I wish I could have talked to you before about this, but I needed time -"

"Commander Riker to the bridge."

The warp engines were engaging, he could feel them, from the corner of his eye saw the stars blurring through the window as he was turning hurriedly to leave, Deanna by his side. She looked at him as they entered the lift. "Think it might be the same ship?"

"Bridge." He shook his head, without saying another word to her, refusing to let himself speculate; they'd know soon enough. The lift doors opened, and he was stepping out onto the bridge. The Captain was standing at the viewscreen; turning to look at him, then at Deanna, back to him.

"There's no ship," the Captain said, instantly, as if to quickly relieve him of that idea. Though he'd tried not to have any expectations, still he could feel his spirits sagging, his heart sinking low at the words: _No ship_. The Captain was walking toward him until he was a step away. He forced himself to look into the grey eyes. And was surprised to see a muted shine there; a ray of hope, that quickly traveled over into his own heart.

"But we've just gotten word from Space Station Seven - One of the hostages, Chief Tomas Boaez, has been released and is there."


	15. PT ONE, Ch 14 -- The Hostage

14. The Hostage

He was bolting down the Space Station's corridors, hurrying along behind the Ensign at the Captain's side, anger and confusion blinding him, so that he kept bumping into people, only vaguely hearing their protests and occasional apologies, none of which turned his mind from its pressing concern. "I don't understand why they won't let us talk to Boaez," he repeated, as he had at least twice before, since the Captain had informed him of the order just before they left the ship.

They had raced to Space Station Seven to meet with the hostage, Boaez, who was being treated for unspecified injuries; at least that was what the brief report had stated that they had gotten before all communication with the Space Station was mysteriously ordered terminated. He and the Captain had been on their way to the Transporter Room to depart for the Station, when Jean-Luc was called back to his Ready Room with an urgent message. He went on ahead, waiting impatiently for the Captain to join him so that they could be off.

Finally, someone who could possibly give him some word of Anna! It had been well over five months now since the attack on Selasdana, over five months since he had left her laying on their bed, over five months since he'd had any way of knowing whether she was alive or - In fact, until now, they hadn't known if any of the missing five from Selasdana were alive. Finding Boaez was the most encouragement he had felt in the intervening months. At last, he would know what had happened - something, anything. Anything would be better than this - this -

For a brief moment, he thought of Deanna: He had been on the verge of telling her about Anna, but now ... Now he would know whether or not there was anything to tell, beyond, I once loved passionately, and married, a girl -

The Transporter Room's doors slid open, and the Captain was walking in, and striding over to the pad, an expression of restrained frustration apparent in the tight lines of his face.

"We will not be allowed to speak to Boaez," Jean-Luc said, as he stepped onto the transporter pad.

He stared at the other man, flabbergasted. "What? Why?"

The Captain nodded to the Transporter Chief. "Energize."

The Transporter Room's atoms scattered, reassembling into the Station's Receiving Room. Empty: No one was there to greet them. The Captain was looking quickly around the room, with an irritated frown. "Right, let's go. They're shipping Boaez out within the hour."

Shocked again, even as he started almost at a run toward the doors alongside the Captain. "In an hour? Why, what the hell's the hurry? And why won't they let us speak to him?"

The doors slid open, and they stepped out into a vast, bustling passageway, with more hallways leading off on each side; Federation personnel, Star Fleet personnel, and civilians of every size, type, and form, were walking up and down, in and out of, the Station's linking corridors, while hovering over the crowds were innumerable blinking signs, synthesized voices coming from all sides directing people on their way, blending with the several languages being spoken, turning it into a confusing jumble: A modern Tower of Babble.

"I don't know why, Number one," the Captain said, looking around. The other man's expression showed plainly what he was thinking; presumably, without a clue where to go in a station this size, they were just going to have to stumble around, wasting precious time looking, hoping they'd find the right place -

"Ensign," the Captain called to a uniformed officer coming out of an adjoining hallway. The young man turned, and came walking back in their direction, dark eyes looking curiously at them. Though the boy, slender and gangling-tall, looked almost too young to be an officer, his bright gaze gave some indication of intelligence.

Jean-Luc glared at the young man. "Ensign, you are in the presence of senior officers. Stand at attention!"

Some of the passers-by looked around at them, as the young man snapped rigidly straight, saluting. "Yes, Sir!"

The Captain leaned forward, speaking into the young man's face. "Ensign, you will quick-step take the Commander and myself to the room where they are debriefing Senior Chief Tomas Boaez!"

The young officer lost his rigidity to stare in apparent confusion at the Captain. "Boaez? I don't -"

"As you were!" The Captain was glaring at the young officer, who bolted upright again. "Ensign, are you blind or incompetent or both?"

The young officer swayed under the onslaught, cheeks beginning to streak with color. "Neither one or both of either of those things, Sir!"

"Then surely you must have been aware of, or seen, a special ship arriving here at this station within the past day with several high-ranking Federation officers aboard, and surely there was a great hullabaloo when this ship arrived, and surely you saw or heard where these great eminencies were headed. Where do they take the V.I.P.'s on this Station, Ensign, can you tell me at least that much?"

"Yes, Sir, that's on the -"

The Captain leaned forward again, shouting into the Ensign's face. "Don't tell me, Ensign, take us there!"

"Yes, Sir!" The Ensign turned and was practically galloping down the passageway, the crowds scattering to get out of his way.

"Why won't they let us talk to Boaez?" he asked, as they quickly followed behind the young officer. "What the hell's going on?"

The Captain shook his head. "I honestly don't know, Number One. We'll only be allowed to watch the debriefing, and that was hard enough going." The Captain glanced at him a moment. "My impression was, someone higher-up the chain wasn't inclined to let us anywhere near him. Lucky Weeb Buchanon is the Commandant here. Bucky's an old friend of mine; even so, he let me know he was sticking his neck out - Ensign, do you know where the hell you're going?"

The Ensign, nearly leaping out of his skin at the Captain's barked question, had slowed at a crosspath and was looking down the left and right corridors. "Yes, Sir, it's just that -"

"What, what?" The Captain was nearly shouting. "Speak up, man! Do you think we have an eternity to waste here?"

The Ensign appeared to be trying to speak. "No, Sir, it's just that - Sir, the V.I.P. quarters are down this passageway to the right, Sir."

"Well, then, what are you waiting for?" the Captain roared.

The young officer was recoiling, looking terrified. "Well, Sir, it's just that this morning, I was delivering a package to -"

"Never mind the bloody package!"

This time the Ensign did jump, spluttering his words out. "Well - well - it's just that I saw some people, walking with the Commandant, going down this passageway here to the left, in a big hurry. The station doc was with them, so I guessed they were going into the medical wing, but it was all hush-hush like. They were looking like they didn't want to be seen, dressed in civilian clothing, but I got the impression that they weren't civilians, if you know what I mean, Sir."

He exchanged looks with the Captain: That had to be it, who they were looking for.

"Good boy. Now, which way, Ensign?" The Captain's voice was soft, now, and quietly urging.

The young Ensign's face brightened at the encouraging words. "This way, Sir."

And they had moved quickly down corridors, following the Ensign almost at a run. But the question kept coming back to him.

"I don't understand this, Captain. Why won't they let us talk to Boaez, why are they rushing him off? Where's he going, in such a hurry?"

They were rounding a corner - and nearly ran into the Ensign's back. The young officer had stopped abruptly ahead of them.

Two Star Fleet security guards, phasers on their belts, were blocking the way down a short corridor.

"Stand aside," the Captain ordered, crisply. "We're expected."

One of the guards, senior in rank and presumably in charge, stepped forward, hand raised, shaking his head. "Sorry, Captain. No one allowed in."

Anger, and desperation, made him push forward. "Get out of the way, Chief," he said, and started to try and muscle his way past.

But the guard stepped back out of his reach and touched the phaser at his side. "Stand back, Commander," the guard warned, and there wasn't any give at all in his face, or tone of voice. "We've got orders to shoot."

"Well, you're going to have to -" But the Captain held him back, for the moment it took him to rein in his own impatience, knowing the other man was as impatient as he, which made him instinctively yield.

The Captain raised his hand to his head, rubbing it hard in clear frustration. "Damn it, we're wasting time! Where is Admiral Buchanon, Ensign -?"

One of the doors at the far end of the passageway was suddenly sliding open and a uniformed Admiral, an older man, came out of the room, walking towards them. "I thought I heard your voice out here, Jean-Luc." The Admiral glared forbiddingly at the Ensign who had escorted them. "Halliday, I should have known! Go on about your business, I'll deal with you later."

"Yes, Sir!" The Ensign was looking terrified again, as he ran away.

The older man glared the young officer off, then laughed tenderly after him, and looked at the Captain, offering his hand. "Jean-Luc, you weren't supposed to find your way here until this thing was over. Leave it to you to shanghai the brightest Ensign on my staff into bringing you right to the door." The Admiral brushed the guards aside and waved his hand towards the room he'd just emerged from. "Come on, then, this way."

Jean-Luc gestured towards him as they walked down the hallway. "Weeb, this is William Riker, Second-in-Command on my ship. What's going on, has the debriefing started?"

Buchanon was nodding at him. "Good to meet you, Commander. Yes, a while ago. You aren't going to believe this," the Admiral said, as he was leading them into the room he'd emerged from earlier.

The room was dim. Buchanon was leading the way over to a wall, where a large pane of glass was softly glowing. As they moved closer, he could see clearly through the pane into the next room, with the instrumentation of what appeared to be a sick bay.

In the center of the other room was a man, sitting slumped in am examination chair. The man's face looked pale, his expression dulled and somewhat dazed; he had raised his fingers to his temple, as if trying to recall something. A woman in a doctor's uniform was seated at the man's side, monitoring a tricorder aimed at the man. Standing in front, and slightly to the right, of the man and facing him, was another man, dressed in civilian-appearing clothing.

Jean-Luc looking over at the Admiral. "Is that man in the chair Boaez?"

Before the Admiral could answer, the man looked up, eyes widening as if suddenly remembering something, showing the bright black eyes that typified Betazeds, leaving no doubt. It had to be Boaez. He looked more closely at the man. There were red healing scars and knots around his face and neck, and vivid welts on his hands. His heart leaped as he recognized what he was seeing: Signs of torture! "They've beaten him, Jean-Luc." _Oh, God, oh my God, Anna! Where are you, what did they do to you?_

The Captain turned to him, but before he could say anything, Boaez spoke, and they both turned back to the glass.

"Yes, yes! Now I recall! Janice - Captain Carter told them that we were prisoners of war under the Geneva Code," Boaez was saying; his voice was reedy, sounding weak, as if it were an exertion to talk.

The other man in the room and the doctor were glancing at each other.

Hair rising on the back of his neck, he turned to Jean-Luc. "Captain Carter? But - she's dead, we both saw her. What is he talking about?"

Jean-Luc reached out and clasped his arm, giving him a strange look, turning back to the glass, as the other man in the room was leaning toward Boaez and speaking again. "You're sure it was Captain Carter who said it? Captain Janice Carter?"

Boaez was looking up at the officer, a confused expression on his face, raising his fingers to his head, pressing his fingers to his temple. His hand appeared to shake.

"He looks terribly ill," Jean-Luc murmured, staring through the glass.

"We think that's why they released him," Buchanon replied. "And why no one else is being allowed to speak to him. They want to get him to a specialized facility as quickly as possible after this debriefing."

"That other man, is he Intelligence?" Jean-Luc asked.

"Yes. Michaels, he's attached to Star Fleet Command, came by their order," Buchanon said; he noticed Michaels leaning forward again towards Boaez, and turned back to the glass.

"Boaez," the Intelligence officer said, his voice raised a little. "Boaez, can you hear me?"

Boaez suddenly straightened in his chair. "Federation Star Fleet Senior Chief, Boaez, Tomas, Ship' s Counselor, Selasdana Station, Identification Number -"

"Yes, yes, we've gone all through that," the other man interrupted, in a gentler tone of voice. "You're with friends now, remember, Tomas? You're safe now."

Boaez looked around, appearing confused again. "Yes - yes, I remember," he replied, in the same thin, shaky voice as before.

Michaels was nodding. "Fine. Now, let's go over this again one more time. What we want to be certain of is who were the people with you. Can you tell me again who the others were from Selasdana Station?"

Boaez was looking up, hand rising to his temple. "I told you, Sir. Carter, Ros, Chavez, Neeley, and myself."

The Intelligence Officer nodded again. "Okay, we've talked about the rest of the crew. Now, I want to talk specifically about Carter. What can you tell me about her? What was she like?"

Boaez narrowed his eyes, as if suspecting a trick. "Why, she's the toughest son-of-a-bitch I ever met in my life, Sir, begging your pardon, Sir."

Michaels nodded encouragingly. "That's perfectly all right, Chief. Now just what makes you say that?"

"Because she stood up to them every time, that's what," Boaez said. "When they came for one of us, she'd get right in their face and try to get them to take her instead. Half the time at least, they did - they took her instead. That stopped, though. And lucky it did, or they surely would have killed her. But she took it for us as long as she could, Sir. I mean them, Sir. They never touched me." Boaez raised his hand to his face; there were clear signs of trauma on the back of his hand, fingers swollen and distorted. "But the others got it pretty bad, especially after they stopped questioning the Captain."

Again he turned to look at the Captain, confused by Boaez' words. "What the hell's going on here? He can't mean what he's saying. Why is he lying?"

Michaels was speaking again. "Do you know why they stopped questioning Carter?"

Boaez frowned. "No, Sir, but it may have been - everyone at the Outpost knew the Captain didn't like men, Sir, I mean, in that way. But all of us could see a few months down the road that she was carrying a package - a baby. They stopped taking her when it became obvious Janice was going to have a baby. She still volunteered herself, I mean demanded, but they ignored her, and that's when it got worse for us - I mean, the others. Like I said, they never touched me, Sir." Boaez was rubbing his wounds as he spoke.

"All right, you're doing fine, Boaez," Michaels said, in a soothing tone. "Now: Can you physically describe Captain Carter for me?"

Boaez looked warily at his questioner. "Describe, Sir?"

"Yes," Michaels said, nodding. "Describe her physically. Start with something simple. Was she short or tall?"

Boaez raised his fingers to his temple. "She was short, Sir."

Michaels nodded again. "Okay, short, that's good. And was she young or old, would you say?"

Boaez's fingers pressed harder into his temple. "Older rather than younger, Sir. I believe - yes, I believe she was thirty-eight or -nine, thereabouts."

"All right, excellent," Michaels said. "And now, what about her hair: Was she light-haired or dark-haired?"

Boaez's eyelids were fluttering. "She was a blonde, Sir. A blonde." The words were almost inaudible, coming out in a strained whisper.

Michaels nodded. "Blonde, yes, okay. Now: What about her eyes? Blue, green, brown, black -?"

Boaez's trembling fingers were digging into the side of his head, his eyes appeared to be going in and out of focus. "They - they - they - were blue. She - she - Janice - Captain Carter's eyes were - blue, Sir, blue. Janice's eyes were blue, blue, _blue_ -" Collapsing forward in his chair.

The doctor was standing from her chair and bending over Boaez, looking at her instruments, frowning at the officer and shaking her head. "He can't take any more, Michaels. No more questions. We have to get him into treatment -"

He was turning from the glass and heading for the door, out into the hallway and down to the next door. It was sliding open, and he was striding into the room; in front of him, Boaez was slumped in his chair, Michaels and the doctor at the sick man's side. "Why do you keep talking about Carter, Chief? Janice Carter wasn't there and you know it!"

Michaels turned, getting up from his seat and walking toward him. "Who are you? What are you doing in here? No one is allowed in here. Guards!" Michaels shouted it over his shoulder, and came toward him; he reached out to push the man aside, but Michaels deflected his arm expertly, catching it at the wrist and twisting it painfully back, so that he almost fell to his knees. And then the guards were surrounding him, taking and pinning both his arms back, and he was struggling with all his might against them, but he couldn't get free. "Let me go! I need to talk to Boaez!"

Michaels was standing back, now that the guards had him securely in place. "Get him out of here. Put him in the brig, I'll talk to him later."

"Let me go!" Still struggling, he was looking at Boaez, as he was being dragged away. "What about Anna Rhaenn? Did you see her, Boaez? Boaez! Did you see Anna Rhaenn?" He was shouting at the man. "Captain Carter is dead, why do you keep talking about Carter? Janice Carter is dead!"

Just as the guards were about to pull him out of the room, the door was sliding open. Jean-Luc Picard and the Admiral were walking into the room. "Let him go!" Buchanon barked at the guards.

Michaels was stepping forward. "This man is under arrest on my orders for interfering with my investigation, Admiral."

Buchanon faced Michaels squarely. "Do you know who these men are? This is Captain Jean-Luc Picard, and that man you're holding is Commander William Riker, of the _Enterprise_. They've been searching for this man and his companions tirelessly since the attack on Selasdana, I think they have some right to know what's going on!"

Michaels looked at him and at the Captain, surprise coming into the grey eyes. "I didn't know it was you, Commander," Michaels said, gazing at him. The expression hardened. "I'm under direct orders. You can not question this man. He is - not well."

Jean-Luc had stepped forward. "Let the Commander go, Michaels. He will behave himself." Said warningly, toward him. "We only wanted to ask -"

A chair scraped behind them, followed by a thud. "I need the trauma team in here!" The doctor's shout turned them all in the other direction: Boaez was sprawled on the floor, the doctor bending over him in attendance, a door opening and two medical personnel rushing into the room to assist her.

He pulled himself away from the guards' loosened grip and moved with the others to Boaez's side, careful to keep out of the doctor's way; the assistants were helping her apply neuronic devices, cardiac devices, hypos, to the body of the sick man, the doctor's quickening, frantic work telling him that the situation was extremely critical, and worsening.

Boaez looked straight up at him, suddenly. The sight of the expression on his face struck him. Boaez's eyes were clear and bright, and there was a relieved, if weak, smile on his face.

"Thank you," Boaez whispered, to him. "Thank you."

Boaez closed his eyes: And died.


	16. PT ONE, Ch 15 -- The Suspicions

15. The Suspicions

An hour later, Riker was in his quarters, waiting for the Captain's return from the Space Station. He'd been ordered back to the ship by his superior officer in an unusually brusque tone, told to wait there and not speak to anyone until his return.

He felt the warp drive engaging suddenly, looked out of the window and saw the stars flashing by, then stabilizing in their orbits as they dropped into warp.

The Captain was back on board. He settled in to wait; a little more time to try and sort through the chaotic encounter that had just happened.

He had gone over and over the interview with Boaez, without making any more sense out of it than when he'd heard it the first time. Finally, he'd been forced to come to the conclusion that the Senior Chief had suffered a breakdown of some sort, and therefore had not been able to talk with any degree of reliability about what he had been through, what he had seen, or anything of the past months he'd been held in captivity.

It was a crushing disappointment. He had pinned so much of his hopes on Boaez, of finally getting some word of Anna, and this was the way it ended, with Boaez dead. Strange that the man should thank him before dying. Thank him for what?

The door was sliding open. He stood as the Captain came striding in, looking more than a little aggravated. "That Michaels is a persistent man," Jean-Luc muttered. "I've only just saved you from being interrogated by him. But there's no telling if he'll change his mind."

The reason they were scramming? "I don't care if he does question me. I'd like to ask him a question or two myself, and whoever -"

"Sit down, Commander!" The Captain looked and sounded angry, as angry with him as he'd ever seen. Stunned, he was sitting immediately.

The stiffness seemed to evaporate instantly from the other man's stance, Jean-Luc almost slumping into the seat across from him, looking suddenly weary. "I'm not angry with you, Will," he said. "I suppose, looking at this objectively, this is more my failure than it is yours." Standing again, looking around the room. "I should have confronted you with my suspicions sooner, but it didn't seem right, somehow. You were in so much pain, you weren't thinking as dispassionately as you should have been, else you might have seen things as clearly for yourself. All of which is no excuse for me." Jean-Luc paused, as he was resuming his seat. "I tried to help you see what I suspected, when I should have been more direct. Now my hand's been forced. We have to have this talk, difficult as it might be for you."

He nodded, a wondering acknowledgment at this strange preface. "All right."

Jean-Luc looked closely at him a long moment. "Will: Recall what we saw that day on Selasdana at the Outpost Command Center."

The scene came clearly into his mind: The bodies of their colleagues scattered throughout the room. "Everyone was dead."

Jean-Luc nodded. "Yes, killed by a massive disrupter attack, according to Beverly. Worf told us that the Outpost's weapons were completely disabled, their shields fully down. They were absolutely unguarded. But why, when they knew of the attack on Ariana and were warned by us to be on the highest alert before we left there? When we found Carter, discovered that she had been unconscious when she died, and her insignia taken, you came to the conclusion that someone had taken her by surprise, stolen her insignia and walked into the Command Post, disabled the computers from the inside, knocking out their defenses, thereby allowing the attack to occur. I believe your words to me were, 'They were ambushed.'"

"That seemed like the most logical scenario at the time. Of course, that was only a guess based on what we saw, something entirely different could have happened." Why _was_ he hedging, suddenly?

"Possibly. But everything added up to your scenario being the correct one. Now, our sensors recorded fifty-three people on Selasdana when we left there to go to Ariana. That count included the fifty Federation personnel, the Rhaenns and their daughter. When we came back, forty-six people were dead at the Outpost, and we found the Rhaenns dead at their home. Four officers were missing, Anna Rhaenn, - and presumably Carter's attacker. Who either left with the others or perished like the rest on the Outpost."

"He had to have gone with the others. The doctor accounted for all the deceased."

"Exactly." Jean-Luc was nodding his agreement. "You recall I asked Beverly to verify the identities of the dead twice for me, because the girl - your wife - was missing. She was positive who those people were that died." He paused. "That begs the question: Who assaulted Carter, and where did that person come from?"

He thought a moment; they had discussed and settled this question at the meetings early on, why bring it up again now? "He left with the attackers. Presumably, he came with them, too."

"You see, that's been our mistaken idea all along, I think." Jean-Luc was shaking his head. "Look: This person attacked Carter right outside of the Command Post. There wasn't any evidence of a violent battle beforehand, their shields were down, their weapons disabled, everyone at their posts. If this person had come from the outside, too many things would have had to have happened differently than appears did. Somehow, the shields would have been made to drop, the weapons disabled, everyone just standing there, which hardly seems probable; and then there wouldn't have been any need to attack Carter because the Outpost would have already have been defenseless. That leads us to the logical conclusion, the conclusion you came to that day: They were ambushed. Now, except for the five missing, the number of people didn't change from the time we left to the time we came back; that's what kept us on the wrong track, believing the attacker arrived with the others from the outside and left with the others. We formulated the theory that the attacker must have found a way to penetrate Seladana's defenses via some advanced technology aboard the _Chameleon _ship_._ Our preconceptions, and our prejudices, caused us to completely overlook a different possibility: What if this person was _already on_ Selasdana when we left, and left with the _Chameleon_, or whoever attacked them?"

"The only people missing besides Anna were - the four officers," he said, suddenly realizing what the Captain was alluding to: The possibility of a traitor. "That's why you had us searching the personnel records, isn't it? You were considering the possibility that one of the officers might have been a Rebel sympathizer, and may have helped them carry out the attack. Of course, if that were true, then it would all have been incredibly easy. He'd walk in unchallenged, drop the shields, disable the weapons and - But then why would they take the other three officers? Unless - all four of them were traitors." He faltered here. "That's impossible. Four Star Fleet officers? Even one would be stretching the limits of believability."

"You're forgetting something. That person, or persons, in your version, didn't just walk in. Someone lured Carter away from the Command Post at a critical time, a time Carter wouldn't easily leave her station. And someone disabled her. With a Vulcan grip. None of those officers were Vulcan."

He went over the list in his mind: Ros, Chavez, Neely, Boaez. "There may have been Vulcans assigned to the Outpost," he offered, tentatively, though he already knew this wasn't the case, there was no mention of Vulcans in the personnel records, a fact that would certainly have caught their attention because of the suspicious bruises on Carter.

The Captain was looking intently at him, grey eyes appearing to want to impart something important to him, but what? "Will, you almost had it figured out yourself. The attack was an ambush, no doubt, but it was hasty, evidenced by the fact that Carter was left almost in plain view, her insignia and communicator stolen, presumably as part of a disguise. This person somehow lured Carter out of the Command Post, gripped her into unconsciousness and stole her insignia and communicator, clipped them on, we can assume to an officer uniform, walked inside the Command Post, dropped the shields and weapons. You figured that much out, just by looking at the scene. Now remember what Beverly said. The people there were stunned first, before they were killed. Why, why not just blast everyone to death at once? Why did the attackers want to immobilize Selasdana? Partly, we can guess, to find the Rhaenns and torture them to death, for what reasons we don't know. But: Isn't it also probable they wanted to find their collaborator or collaborators and bring them back to the ship? All right, then. The attackers go to the Outpost. All of the personnel are laying around unconscious. They take the four officers. Remember what Boaez said: _Carter_, Ros, Chavez, Neely and himself were in the group. He said Captain Janice Carter was with them."

He was shaking his head, even as the picture was beginning to dawn on him. "But we saw her at the Outpost. She was dead. Boaez couldn't have seen her later."

The Captain held his gaze. "And yet he described his Captain perfectly. Again we come to Carter. Carter was an officer. True, she didn't have her insignia on, but she was wearing a red uniform. If they were looking for officers, why didn't they take Carter, too? No, obviously, they weren't looking for officers. Let's consider the possibility that the attackers didn't know who the collaborator was when they arrived at the Outpost. The identity of such a high-ranking infiltrator would be a very closely-guarded secret that perhaps only one or two people at the very top of their organization knew. They don't have an unlimited amount of time, assuming we will be returning to Selasdana soon. If the personnel files were destroyed, they have no way of knowing who anybody is, but if they saw Carter in the corridor, they reason as you did, that the person they are looking for disguised themselves as an officer. They just don't know which officer. So their task is obvious: They look for people dressed in officer's uniforms, take them all, and sort them out later on the ship. They didn't take Carter, but five people are missing. Who was the only other person left, the only other person missing from Selasdana, the possible fifth person in the group Boaez identified as Carter? Sit down, Will, please."

When had he gotten up? "You think it was Anna. You think Anna disguised herself as an officer, possibly as Carter, and you think that's why they took her," he said, at last, unable not to see the Captain's reasoning now.

The other man's eyes were steadily boring into his. "I think more than that, which is why I didn't want Michaels to question you before we could talk. Boaez confirmed what I already suspected, when he was talking about Carter as the fifth member of their group."

"Boaez said a lot of crazy things." He was trying hard to follow what the Captain was saying, but something within him was resisting fully assimilating this information - because he had already sensed that accepting the scenario the Captain was taking such pains to lay out would discover some hidden meaning in it to him, something he didn't want to know. "He said Carter was there, when she wasn't. He said he hadn't been touched by his captors when he clearly had been tortured. Boaez didn't make any sense at all."

The Captain nodded. "I grant he lends little credence to my theory after a certain point. It's possible, even likely, Chief Boaez had been under some form of mind control, and that he became ill, cracked under the strain. A Betazed under those conditions couldn't survive long, not with their constitutional inability to lie. He may very well have been made to believe Janice Carter was there among them, if that suggestion was implanted in his mind. And other suggestions, such as about the torture never happening, may also have been implanted." He paused. "We may never know the extent of the truth in the things Boaez said. I based my conclusions mainly on what we observed at the Outpost. That Vulcan nerve grip was what started my suspicions. The only Vulcans on Selasdana that we know of were T'Prianne Rhaenn, and the Rhaenn's daughter, Anna, your wife."

This possibility was too extreme to go unchallenged. "Wait, wait: You're saying you think _T'Prianne Rhaenn_ had something to do with the attack on Selasdana?"

The Captain was shaking his head. "T'Prianne Rhaenn wasn't at the Outpost, Will. We found her with her husband at their home, dead. It was Anna Rhaenn who disappeared, leaving her parents there to die their terrible death. Let's say there was a plan to attack Selasdana. Then the raid on Ariana goes off, as you suspected, in an attempt to lure us away from Selasdana. The strict sense of duty that impels you to return instantly to the ship when you are summoned prevents Anna from carrying out her first plan, returning to the _Enterprise_ with you as your wife. We depart, and Anna is left behind. That's when she carries off an improvised plan. She disguises herself as Carter, makes her way to the Command Center, from the corridor lures Carter to come out to where she is, incapacitates her and takes her insignia, enters the Command Center and sets the Outpost's shields and defenses to crash. The attackers then stun everyone, go to the Outpost and take all the uniformed officers knowing that she's one of them. In other words, they may not have been trying to fool us. We were the ones fooling ourselves." The grey eyes holding his were steely now. "It may not have been an accident that they took Anna Rhaenn. It is possible she may have disguised herself as Carter in order to help carry off the attack on Selasdana, and that she did this because she was in league with the Rebellion."

"It isn't true." He said it, automatically. Searching for a hole, some false logic, in the scenario he'd just heard. "It isn't true!"

Because if it was true, then - then - _then_ -

"Will." Jean-Luc was looking at him closely. "You're not saying it's not possible, only that it isn't true."

"Well, it isn't!" It suddenly occurred to him: Boaez. "Remember what Boaez said, that Carter was being tortured nearly every day. Why would they torture Anna if she was helping them? Why keep the others hostage, why was Boaez even alive, after they realized who she was, if what you're saying is true?"

Jean-Luc raised his hand. "Will, Boaez wasn't reliable, remember that. We can't know what may have implanted in his mind, why he said the things he said. Unless and until the other hostages are released, we may never know what happened after they left Selasdana. Look, recall that you only met Anna Rhaenn that night. You are in no way to blame for this, you had no way of knowing, or even of suspecting, what her -"

"Captain," he said, suddenly remembering something else Boaez had said. "Captain - Jean-Luc, if she was taken by them, if she was part of the group - Boaez said that she - Carter - Anna! Oh, God! That Anna was pregnant!"

[* * *]

He went over and over what the Captain had told him. Of course, there were other possibilities. With few real facts, any conclusions they came to would be just that, theories and conclusions based entirely on guesses and conjecture. Just because the Captain's theory and conclusions seemed like the most logical ...

And then his heart would despair. Was it true, was Anna a traitor? Had she only seen him, and their marriage, as a means of carrying on her true role as a spy? It couldn't be, it couldn't be! He couldn't have mistaken what he had seen and felt in her that night. She loved him, he was certain of that, and he loved her, even if she was a spy ...

_A spy!_ Could she really be a Rebel spy? But Boaez said that her captors had tortured Carter. If she was a spy, why would they torture her? Why would she continue on in Carter's guise? Unless it was as Jean-Luc had said, that after a certain point Boaez's testimony wasn't reliable. But where was that point, exactly? At what point had Boaez cracked?

That interview with Boaez had been the most maddening piece of this puzzle. Was there any truth at all to the things he had said? And if so, which parts were true and which weren't?

Nights and days he thought about it, and what Jean-Luc had said. There was little else to do, now; they were continuing on their search for the _Chameleon_, with nothing to show for their efforts. The rest of the Rebel ships were in hiding, apparently. There'd been no sign of any of the remaining Rebel fleet, since their last encounter in the Neutral Zone. Whether this was a coincidence or not, they had no way of knowing.

[* * *]

"Jean-Luc, let's look at this another way," he said, settling down into the sofa in the Captain's Ready Room one morning: There was no need to explain what he had come to talk about. He was certain the other man's thoughts were as continually preoccupied as his own with Selasdana and the events that had occurred there and afterward.

Jean-Luc was coming over and sitting down next to him, nodding, appearing ready to listen. "All right."

He was leaning forward. "What if Boaez was telling the complete truth?"

The other man's expression changed instantly to surprise, and then skepticism; he'd been expecting that reaction, and was prepared for it. "No, look, just hear me out on this. You think Anna left Selasdana with the attackers, and that she was disguised as Carter. Boaez backs you up on that point, right? He says there's five of them from Selasdana, and that Carter was one of the group. The fact that he describes someone, presumably Anna, as Carter shows that he's been suggested into believing Anna is his Captain. You yourself said you thought that was what had happened. He says Carter recites the Geneva Code to their captors, just as a ranking officer would in that situation, that she takes charge, she demands their rights as prisoners of war. All of that part of his story strikes me as hanging together perfectly, don't you think?"

"Yes," his friend said, nodding. "I see no contradiction so far."

"Yes, yes, of course, don't you see? There _is_ no contradiction. At first, I couldn't understand what Boaez was talking about. But, once I accepted that he was telling the truth, the story began to make sense. Look, he thinks Anna is his Captain, and you think she's disguised as the Captain, and she acts like the Commanding Officer with the people who are holding them. Boaez says she sticks up for them, often taking beatings in their stead, until they begin to suspect that she may be pregnant." He stopped here, a moment. It was the one part of Boaez's story he didn't want to believe. "I'd have to say that the narration, going over months like that, sounds fairly convincing and even coherent, in its way."

The Captain's eyes were searching the air. "Yes. If you take the story just as he gave it."

"Exactly." He nodded, eagerly. "Now, wouldn't that be awfully strange treatment for an ally? Interrogations, beatings, torture? From Boaez's description, she's almost confrontational, remember he says she's the toughest S.O.B. he's ever seen, and that she's frequently taken out and questioned instead of one of the others. If anything, if what he said is true, she's acted - heroically, there's no other way to see it. Say for a moment Anna had nothing to do with the attack on Selasdana, -" He held up his hand forestalling the Captain's protests. "Just speaking hypothetically now. Say she somehow got caught up in the events, or stepped in when Carter fell in the attack - or anything else you want to suppose. That's my point. We don't know, we have no way of knowing, what the circumstances were of her leaving Selasdana with the others."

"Oh, Will." The Captain was leaning back, gazing at him. "Then we'd be right back to square one. Who was the insider? Who inflicted that Vulcan grip on Carter? More importantly, why did Anna Rhaenn disguise herself as Carter, and why was she taken? The Rebels had never taken prisoners before, and for that matter, her parents would have been far more valuable as hostages, if that had been their intent. Why take her, specifically?"

"For all we know, she may have gone to the Outpost to offer her help, and the real traitor forced her to participate in the ambush. Well, why not consider another possibility?" He stared into the grey eyes, willing his friend to listen to his interpretation of the facts, although even he had to admit that the idea of forcing a Vulcan into anything like what they saw on Selasdana was the most extreme of scenarios. "Look, Jean-Luc, if Anna was a Rebel spy, then why would she even have come back to Selasdana, right before the Rebels were planning to attack the Outpost?"

"It is possible that she may only have learned of the plan to attack Selasdana once she arrived there. However, it is more likely that the attack was part of her true purposes, though it helped her to get away when she could not carry off her initial plan. Will, recall that Anna Rhaenn came by special transport, direct from Vulcan, arriving shortly before you beamed down to the Rhaenn's home. Considering the incredible coincidence of our being there at that precise moment, it may very well be that this was all exquisitely timed, and that she was brought in specifically to be placed on the _Enterprise_ through you, which we only escaped by your hasty departure from Selasdana, and that the attack was meant to wipe out all traces of her treachery once she was on her way with you, perhaps even to add a sentimental dimension to your marriage at the loss of her parents."

He deliberately ignored the compassionate look in his friend's eyes. "All right, I can see you're very certain of what you believe." He stuck his chin out. "You're so sure she's in league with them, aren't you? You won't give her the benefit of any doubt? You've always been fair-minded, Jean-Luc. Why not now, with her? I say that at the least, we don't know what happened on Selasdana, and that we can only guess at the truth. But, if what Boaez said was true, the courageous actions she took on the Rebel ship, then working backwards from that, it's proof that she wasn't involved in the attack on Selasdana, and in ways we can't understand from this distance, may even have tried to stop it."

The Captain waved his hand. "Basing all this on what? On the words of a demented, dying man?" Closing his eyes, rubbing his forehead. Opening them suddenly, and looking straight into his own. "And going back to your earlier point. No, Will, I don't have any overwhelming desire to think badly of Anna Rhaenn. Certainly not to the extent of believing her to be a willing participant in the slaughter of all those people on Selasdana and Ariana, a conspirator in the torture-slaying of her parents, and a traitor to the Federation. Just the opposite: I haven't for one moment forgotten that she's the wife of a man I greatly admire and respect, and regard as one of my closest friends, that she is the daughter of two of the greatest scientists in Federation history, and not least, that she is Vulcan. If it were reasonable or even plausible to believe that Anna Rhaenn was guilty of all I suspect, I would have gone long ago to Schoenhutt and again asked to return to Selasdana. As it is, I struggle every day with the reasons for keeping these suspicions to myself. I justify my silence by telling myself that there is nothing whatsoever to support my theory. I admit that even to myself the idea seems impossibly far-fetched, based only on what fragments of evidence suggests might have happened there."

"Okay, then, tell me why they would continue to interrogate, and even torture her, if she was on their side."

"We're back to Boaez again, and what _he_ said happened." The Captain waved his hand, looking thoughtful. "Don't think I haven't considered this possibility, that she is being held against her will - or at least, giving that appearance. That's somewhat consistent with what happened at the Outpost. A more sinister possibility exists, and that is that the people who are holding her are choosing not to reveal her identity. With no evidence to be brought against her, she stands nothing to lose by continuing the charade. If Anna Rhaenn is a spy, she could be holding onto her cover in front of the hostages on the remote chance she could someday, somehow, make her way out and continue her work for the Rebellion. A truly dedicated agent might go to such lengths, and we have seen proof of what the Rebellion will do for their cause. You know," the Captain said, leaning forward in his seat, eyes looking into his. "Considering the scarcity of their resources, the Rebellion has been willing to pay an extremely high price, both in blood and armament, for the sake of holding onto that girl; ask yourself why. Why would she be worth so much to them, unless she was an extremely valuable asset? Under those circumstances, it's doubtful they would willingly return her to the Federation. Now, the end, or what appears to be the end, of this conflict is nearing, and we still have no idea what's happened to those people. Frankly, unless we were ever to hear an explanation from her own lips, we may never know the truth of what really happened at Selasdana."


	17. PT ONE, Ch 16 -- The Rescue

Author's Note: And some of the technical issues on this site still perplex me. In this chapter, only em-dashes appear, no matter how often I've tried to edit in a second dash mark. So, wherever you see one, imagine there's actually two there.

15. The Rescue

Picard's head was hurting. At first the pain was merely a minor nuisance, and he tried ignoring it, concentrating as well as he could make himself do, on his work. But the pain grew worse, a throbbing ache spreading slowly throughout his skull. After a while, he stood and left his quarters, starting toward the lift, then changing his mind and turning back, going the other direction down the passageway toward Beverly Crusher's quarters.

She answered her door at the second signal. "Oh, hello, Jean-Luc," she said, stepping aside to let him in; she was wearing a dark teal-blue dress, of a style and length suited to a formal party, pretty against her pale skin and red hair. "Come in, come in, sorry to keep you waiting." She ended with a breathless laugh, hand rising to her flushed cheek.

"I hope I'm not disturbing you," he murmured, politely. "If you're busy -?"

"No, not if you need me, I assume that's why you're here. Please come in."

He was walking into the room. "Yes, actually. I wondered if you had something for a headache."

Her expression turned serious immediately, and she reached for the medical bag nestled in amongst a clutter of hats and bags, beads and gloves scattered over the table. There was a heavy floral perfume in the air, slightly nauseating to him at the moment.

"Sit down there." She pointed him onto a stool, then reached into her medical bag, taking out her tricorder, and came toward him, adjusting the device. "How long have you been having this pain?"

"Not long. More annoyance than anything. I was going to go down to Sick Bay, but I was afraid they'd fuss too much down there, and I couldn't take it right now, not with this head."

She was arching her eyebrows. "Well, I'll have to talk to my staff -"

He waved his hand. "Oh, that isn't necessary, Beverly. I only meant that I -"

She was smiling at him. "I know what you meant. You _are _out of sorts; the pain must be pretty bad." She was scanning his head with her instrument, her eyes going from the gauges to his face, and then back again. "Well, pain aside, there's nothing terribly serious wrong, just your garden variety tension headache. Although I must say as your doctor that I'm not surprised, Jean-Luc. It's a wonder you haven't made yourself sick with exhaustion, the way you've been working lately."

_Sick ... sick ... sick ...,_ his head throbbed. Yes, he was sick inside, his thinking exhausted. He didn't want to think anymore, because it always came back to the same thing. The attacks on Ariana and Selasdana, the taking of the hostages, most of all, the vicious killing of the Rhaenns, were the events that had escalated hostilities with the Rebellion. Why had they been murdered as they were, and what part did Anna Rhaenn Riker play in all of it? That was the question, the question that plagued him, that kept him up nights, that had him worried sick. _Sick ... sick ... sick ..._

"Your pressure's up a little, too," she murmured. "No wonder there, either, with this thing hanging over you for so long."

_This thing!_ _This thing!_ His head was booming with her every word. Well, it wasn't as if there was a choice, he had to go on with "this thing," as she called it. Hunt down the Rebel ships, search for that illusive _Chameleon_, find and rescue the hostages. But it seemed as if all of their efforts had been fruitless, or worse, counterproductive. There'd been no sign of the Rebel fleet since their last encounter in the Neutral Zone, no further sign of the _Chameleon_ since their first night in the Corridor, no trace of the hostages after Boaez had been released, an episode ending in that poor man's death.

Beverly was setting aside the tricorder. "You know, Jean-Luc, what you really need more than any medicine is to take your mind off your problems. Doctor's advice: Concentrate on something else for a while. Something pleasant. Something … happy."

She was smiling, reaching for the administrator.

_Happy_: Will and Deanna.

The sudden, and certain, realization of what it was she alluding to, with that smile, made the sides of his head throb with a furiously hot, hammering pain. He gritted his teeth, looking around desperately for something to change the subject, his head feeling like a boulder about to roll off as he turned. In front of him, Beverly's blue dress loomed up, a dark shimmering lake of taffeta that chilled his skin, raising goosebumps.

_The dress._ "That's a lovely shade of blue," he said, grasping at the straw. "Suits you."

"Thank you," she said, accepting the compliment with a slight, pleased nod. "I thought it'd be nice to have a new gown, in case a special occasion came up." The lilt in her voice, the knowing look in her eyes, and her soft smile no longer left any doubt where she was going with this line. His head ached mercilessly, he had to squint his eyes against the pain, pressing his hands against his temples, throwing one hand out to stop her; Beverly pulled back the administrator in surprise, watching him and waiting.

"Oh, no, none of that, not now. I can't stand it right now," he groaned, his headache increasing with his sudden irritation, skin flushing angrily hot.

She looked even more surprised. "What?"

"You know damn well what!" He caught himself up, suddenly, realizing that he was nearly shouting.

Her green eyes that had been widened, were now slowly narrowing. "Well, no," she said. "What is it exactly that you can't stand?"

"Nothing, Beverly," he said, suppressing his voice. "I meant nothing by it." He was starting to form an apology, automatically. And then, goaded by the pain in his head, his heart hardened. "You were going to say something about Will and Deanna again, and I don't want to hear it," he blurted out.

"Oh, I thought that was what you meant. No, I wasn't going to say anything about them, actually," Beverly replied. "You made it perfectly clear the last time I mentioned their names to you that you didn't want to hear it." Her voice was edged sharp as a razor, cutting right at his nerves. "And of course you were right, I was talking out of turn. Gossiping is a terrible failing of mine."

He didn't reply, recognizing the futility of saying anything to contradict her. His head was splitting: He wanted to scream, _Stop this pain, stop it now._ His eyes dropped to the instrument in her hand, clearly forgotten. Oh, why hadn't he just gone to Sick Bay?

As if reading his mind, she suddenly looked pointedly at the device in her hand, lips pressed tight and pale with anger as she adjusted the gauges. "Excuse me, Captain," she said, tone clipped and formal, and doing no good job of covering over her temper. "I'm very sorry if I've offended you."

"Oh, Beverly -!"

She held up her hand, as if to close the subject. The gesture infuriated him; he closed his mouth tight for reply. Her eyes bolted straight up to his face, green eyes flashing bright with anger. "You know, you're absolutely right, Jean-Luc, I _should_ know better! What do you _ever_ want to hear nowadays, if it isn't directly related to this, this, this all-encompassing mission? It's like a crusade for you! Well, I'm not sorry if the whole crew is not as entirely wound up in this thing as you are!"

"Wound up, did you say?" He was standing from the chair and starting for the door. "Oh, yes, yes indeed, wound up, and I've only a Rebellion to fight, hostages to find and rescue, a _Chameleon_ to deal with, and we are in the Corridor with Romulans just the other side of the Neutral Zone, and why should any of that wind me up, hey? Nothing so terrible that a little romantic nonsense wouldn't put right, isn't that so? Wound up!"

She was reeling back, staring at him. "Romantic _nonsense_?" She gave an angry wave of her hand. "No, go ahead, think of it, and of me, that way, if it suits you. But I'll tell you something, regardless: Yes, I admit I'm pleased to see two young people, dear friends of mine, possibly falling in love again. And I'd mistakenly thought you would be happy for them, too. Except there's no room in that little tightly-wrapped world of yours for anything other than the business of this mission. Well, whatever you may think, I know that it's possible to have a life beyond duties to this ship. I'm especially happy to see that Will hasn't been sucked in to that world view, poisoned by that attitude -"

"Poisoned! Oh, yes?" He turned to face her. "And what do you call filling Deanna's head with these schoolgirl fantasies, encouraging baseless notions of Will's undying love for her? Is that healthy? Is that good for her?" He stepped toward her. "Let's clear this up, once and for all, Beverly: Will's not in love with Deanna. You'll just make her miserable thinking so!"

She threw her hands up. "And you are so certain! Well, I suppose you would know! Only for God's sakes, at the very least don't let this mission ruin things for him! Don't dare let it stand in the way of his happiness!"

He was staring at her, the blood drum-beating in his head, jolting along his veins like a maddening charge. "And this is really what you think of me! You think _I'm_ stopping him? No, damn it, I'll tell you precisely why he won't marry Deanna, and it's nothing to do with me! Will Riker is never going to marry Deanna, and for the most practical of reasons: Because Will Riker is already a married man!"

The words were out of his mouth almost before he could stop them; for a moment he wondered how she could have gotten under his skin to such a degree as to cause the truth to come blurting out of him in so indiscreet a fashion; but almost immediately, he admitted to himself the most probable - the _real_ reason for his disclosure. He'd no doubt been waiting for an excuse to tell her the truth so that she'd get off this kick she'd been on, which he couldn't help but feel was deeply harming to his Counselor's peace of mind, and unreasonably so, since he had no doubt Will was absolutely devoted to his wife, and had no thought at all of entering into a relationship again with Deanna Troi.

Beverly was staring at him, open-mouthed, raising her hand to her cheek, as if he had slapped her across the face. Over her shoulder, he glimpsed movement in the bedroom doorway and looked across the room -

Deanna Troi was standing in the doorway; she, too, was in a formal dress. It came to him instantly that the two women had been back there, trying on outfits, before he had arrived, and Deanna, realizing the Doctor was attending a patient, had discreetly stayed behind, waiting quietly in the other room, unable to help overhearing them, and what he had revealed.

"Oh, Good Lord!" He started automatically toward her, and then stopped. "Deanna -"

Beverly was still staring at him. "It can't be true!" she cried, interrupting him. "It can't be true!"

He turned to Deanna again, not knowing what to say. "Deanna - Deanna, I didn't know you were there."

Her dark eyes were unblinking as they looked into his. "Now I understand ... this explains so much - everything."

Beverly was walking over to her side, taking her arm. "It can't be true, it isn't true, Deanna! He was just -" She stopped, turned and was staring silently at him; clearly, waiting for him to say something - to deny what he had said.

He couldn't.

She turned to Deanna again. "It can't be true, Deanna! It isn't true! Will would have told you! He would have told everyone! He would have - No, no - wait, wait a minute." She was looking around at him. "If Will Riker _is_ married, then where is his wife?" Throwing the words across at him, like a challenge. "Well, Jean-Luc? Where's Mrs. Riker? Where is she? _Who_ is she? Is she on this ship, is he hiding her somewhere? I haven't met her. Have _you_?"

He shook his head slowly after a moment. "I haven't met her," he admitted, at last.

Beverly threw up her hands, was staring speechless at him as if he'd lost his mind.

"Why hadn't we heard about it - about the marriage - before?" Deanna asked; despite what he knew she must be feeling, he could detect only the slightest strain in her voice as she spoke, and heard no doubt at all of what he had revealed; she had accepted the truth of Will's marriage, he could tell, but there was still her own acceptance to struggle with.

"He would have announced it, except that circumstances intervened."

"Circumstances? What circumstances?" Beverly was becoming agitated again. "What kind of circumstances would keep him from announcing his _marriage_, for Heaven's sakes? I don't believe it, I can't believe it. Will, married? Without a word to anyone? Without telling Deanna?"

"I was there when he made the decision not to tell anyone, I know his reasons," he said. He shook his head again. "I ought not to say any more than I have already."

Deanna's black eyes were shining with repressed emotions, and yet she had managed to keep herself well under control. "You're right, of course." She turned to him and nodded. "You can trust us, Sir. We won't say anything," she said, softly; and that softness, bespeaking her kind and generous heart now twice-broken by the same man, tore at him far more than any hysterical tears would have done. "It's his secret to keep, and yours."

He didn't know what to say, how to comfort her. "I'm sure that, someday, he'll share the whole story with you, Deanna."

She smiled, a little: Brave girl. "Yes, I'd like to know it. And to congratulate him, of course. And the lucky woman."

[* * *]

"There, and there, see?"

He was trying to pay attention to what Will was showing him on the screen; a pattern of Rebel ship movements in a nearby system. It was one of a many dozens of systems that Will had focused on over the months, places they'd gone to and searched thoroughly for any signs of Rebel activity, to no avail.

"Look, and there again. At least four contacts, Captain. There has to be some reason we keep finding their traces around this area."

"Yes, well, you've checked for bases, haven't you?"

"Yes, Sir. Negative. But I've been thinking about this system, why they've been coming here. It has a high concentration of selenium isotopes in the atmosphere, which they must know our sensors can't penetrate; the perfect hiding place. But, the same thing could work in reverse. I think that if we…"

... Ever since she had spit them out at him a few days before, Beverly's angry words had lodged themselves in his mind, repeating over and over, like an endless loop. _Sucked in, poisoned by your attitude ... _

Even if Beverly's perception of his attitude was correct, he had obviously not influenced Will by it in the least. His First Officer had wedded Anna Rhaenn nearly instantly after meeting her, and he had been convinced by everything he'd seen in Will since that nothing other than true, deep, love had propelled him into the hasty marriage. Nevertheless, the sentiments underlying Beverly's accusations had surprised and stung him into self-examination. Was it possible? Was he or had he become, as she had implied, a lonely, embittered man?

If only he could have persuaded Will himself to tell Deanna about his marriage. After some consideration, he didn't regret setting both Beverly and Deanna straight on the matter, although of course, he wouldn't have wished Deanna finding out that way. But he knew Beverly, knew that she would have gone on feeding Deanna's false hopes, perhaps unwittingly and certainly proceeding from a warm heart, but no less damaging for all that, and that to his mind at least was much worse than hearing the cold, hard truth and setting herself to accept it.

Shaking off these thoughts, he concentrated on the last of what Will was saying about his plan. "All right, make it so," he said, when the other man was finished. Likely, they'd come up empty, like all the other times. "Will, wait," he said. "Sit down, please."

The younger man sat down again, looking at him. He was surprised to see how tired and thin Will looked, how haggard his face. Well, and no wonder. In that way, Beverly was absolutely right. This search was going to have to end soon, for everyone's sake. He was determined to be blunt.

"Have you given any thought as to how this mission could proceed as less than a full scale operation?"

The other man's eyes suddenly blazed up. "No, Sir, not until we find the people missing from Selasdana."

The chances of finding them had never seemed that great to him, and lessening more each day. "It's been nearly eight months, Will," he said, quietly. "Frankly, I'm surprised headquarters has let us go on looking this long for those people."

"We both know why: they're using the mission as cover to wage war against the Rebellion. As long as we aren't ordered to stop, I don't care what their reasons are." His Second-in-Command's voice was firm and unwavering; presumably, so was his determination.

He suppressed a sigh. "Will - perhaps, if you were to talk to the Ship's Counselor about this whole thing - about your marriage. Your wife. About what's happened."

The other man ducked his head a moment, before looking up at him. "Is that an order, Sir?"

"No, of course not," he replied, patiently. "But - Deanna and Beverly already know that you were married. I told them. I didn't go into the details, but they know."

Will's surprised look was only temporary, the other man nodding after a moment. "Yes, Sir. I don't doubt it was necessary to share that information."

He was leaning forward. "Now that they know, wouldn't you like to talk to the Counselor about your situation? I'm sure she'd be very helpful and understanding."

"No." Will was shaking his head. "This hasn't changed my mind. I don't want her sympathy or her kind words. I'll talk about my wife when I have her here beside me." The blue eyes darkened. "Or over her coffin, if it comes to that."

It would mostly likely be the coffin; at least that possibility had been openly acknowledged, now. He thought for a moment. How many more days, weeks, until his young friend gave in to the reality of their situation? It couldn't be much longer. "All right. Set your course, and let's go see what we can find."

[* * *]

He was in a shuttle craft, but it was a small house, settled on a green lawn against a blue sky, the interior all white squares, white curtains everywhere, draped against white walls and in doorways, floating over white empty tables. From the sofa, he was setting the automatic pilot, the instruments vanishing into the coffee table afterwards. And then he stood, and was walking, and she was by his side walking with him, and they were going to a room where they would make love, and he was excited and intensely happy, happier than he had ever been, this, this was oh too blissful, but the ship was going off-course, the auto-pilot had failed, and rockets were falling from the sky and fierily crashing in bright orange flames, the sky itself changing in moments from clear to cloudy to darkness and stars clustering into strange, wild signs and symbols he couldn't read but could instinctively understand, constellations, bright apparitions that were terrifying, were falling out of the sky, and yet he wouldn't, couldn't leave her, they were in terrible danger, and he was struggling, desperately trying to find an escape, but he wouldn't leave her, no, not now, _Captain, Captain,_ no, not now, not now -

"Captain. Captain Picard."

He struggled to open his eyes ... looking around the room for her ... She ...

He blinked, the dream receding too quickly ... And yet, he knew her, he was certain of it ... If only he could think a moment, undisturbed, go back into the dream ... he needed so much to -

"Bridge to Captain Picard."

Data's even voice, over the intercom.

He came all the way awake, struggling to sit up, realized that he had somehow become tightly entangled in his bedclothes, imprisoned and overheated inside them. Tearing the bedding away furiously, he was sitting up in bed, swinging his legs over the side, the soles of his feet meeting the cool surface with a pleasant shock; he felt much better, calmer, after a moment. "Yes, Data, what is it?"

"Captain, a string of Rebel ships have appeared on our long-range sensors. Thirteen of them, Sir, including the _Chameleon_."

[* * *]

As quickly as he dressed and headed for the bridge, his Second-in-Command was already there, huddled tightly with Worf at the sensors, Will looking up at him when he came into the dimmed room, face blue-tinged from the screens turning the set expression into a strange, hard mask.

He walked over to the screens to take a look for himself. And there they were. Twelve ships. And the _Chameleon_. The signatures were unmistakable.

His heard began to beat hard, like a bird trapped under his ribs. "This must be the entire fleet," he said, in a voice fallen down to a whisper, his throat tightened by an unspeakable emotion.

"What's left of them." Geordi LaForge had responded.

He looked up. All of his officers were gathered here with him now, Geordi, Data, Deanna, Beverly, alongside Worf and Will. "But these are beauts," Geordi continued. "They look like brand new top of the line battle cruisers."

"Those cruisers would be armed with superior weapons and defenses, Sir," Worf said. "We can not read the _Chameleon_'s defenses."

"And that's the _Chameleon_!" he murmured, staring almost unbelieving at the image on the little screen. Tearing his eyes away, he looked over at Will. "How did we pick them up?"

His Second-in-Command's eyes were feverishly bright. "Parked ourselves in this planet's selenium field, dropped our power profile to nothing, and waited for them to come back," Will said. "And they did come back. My hunch paid off."

He nodded, appreciating his Second-in-Command's hunting skills anew. "Excellent work, Commander."

Geordi was bending forward, looking at the screen. "Must be some kind of pow-wow going on. Wonder what they're confabbing about?"

Worf looked over at the Engineering Officer. "Planning for battle," he declared.

"Or surrender," Deanna countered, her dark eyes thoughtful.

His Second-in-Command looked up, eyes narrowed, shaking his head impatiently. "What's important is that they're here, now, all in one place. Not what they are doing or planning to do. What _we_ do."

He nodded. "All right. Suggestions on how to proceed?"

"Well, that's just it," LaForge was looking at him. "The instant we move, we'll start throwing off power and they'll pick us up and fly."

Will's strangely gleaming eyes caught his. "It's perfectly obvious, Captain," his Second- in-Command said, calmly. "We'll cloak ourselves, uncloak in the middle of them, and destroy as many of the cruisers as we can get -"

"Madness!" Worf exclaimed, his strong voice exploding, in the midst of the others' gasps. Bowing slightly, to soften both the word and the way he'd said it. "I apologize, Commander. But do you realize what you're saying? We'd be outnumbered thirteen to one! And these ships are real fighters, with first-class weapons and excellent defenses. And the _Chameleon! _The _Chameleon_ alone must have powerful weapons."

Will was turning to look at him, waiting. He nodded. "Go on," he said; a tremor was starting inside his body. Adrenaline. Excitement. Fear. Anticipation. And something else, something else was fluttering unsettled in his stomach, something he didn't want to face squarely, not yet.

"Everything's on our side, Captain," Will said. "Sir, the Rebels don't know how to fight. Let's not forget these guys are more Ferengi than Klingon, they were traders and merchants, never warriors. Except for a few dozen raids on defenseless planets, all these guys have ever done is run. Their men aren't battle-seasoned, neither are their leaders, certainly not like we are. Just look at their formation. They're in a half-circle: Perfect! When we uncloak, their first instinct will be to freeze, their second to scatter, we can take full advantage of both postures. We'll trapdoor 'em, up and out, left to right on our primaries, run-and-shoot on our secondaries. We can take them, I know we can."

Geordi shifted excitedly on his feet. "Sounds like fish in a barrel, if it comes off." The Chief Engineer was leaning forward. "But what about the _Chameleon_? You don't think -?"

Will was already shaking his head, as if anticipating the question. "The _Chameleon_'s Captain's first reaction will be to overreact, believing we're coming after him first. He'll panic, cloak to protect himself, and take off. And that'll be absolutely demoralizing to the rest of the fleet: Whoever may have been inclined to fight won't feel much like it after seeing their leader, their best ship, turn tail and vanish."

Will could be so persuasive. He could feel the contagion of excitement growing in his people, crossing his arms tightly across his body as if to protect from catching the fever himself. "What about the hostages? Wouldn't we be better off going directly after the _Chameleon_ and attempting a rescue of our people, if they are on board that ship?"

"That would be simpler to accomplish, Commander," Geordi added. "We could come out of cloak, and throw a tractor beam on the ship, before they even knew what hit 'em. The other ships take off -"

Will was shaking his head, vigorously. "If those other guys see us capturing their prize ship, they might try to fight in her defense, and while we're holding the ship in our beam, we'd be vulnerable ourselves to attack. We'd be forced to let go and defend ourselves - and that's if our beam can even hold her. Besides, her Captain wouldn't take kindly to being ambushed. By the time we reached the ship, the hostages would likely be killed. And we'd still have to deal with the other twelve ships. No: Our main objective should be on getting rid of those other ships. We know what we'd be dealing with, at least, against them. And let the _Chameleon_ run."

"But if, as you think will happen, the _Chameleon_ gets away, and they do have the hostages, we may never get another chance at recovering them," he reminded, quietly.

Will looked off a moment, before turning back to look at him. "Face it, Sir, we can't take _Chameleon_, not as long as it has twelve other battle cruisers with it, we can't shoot at it with the hostages aboard, and we can't chase or track it down either, not with that cloaking device aboard. The best we can do is to destroy and damage as much of the rest of that fleet as possible, leaving the Rebels with nothing left except for the one thing we want: The hostages. If we're successful, even if the _Chameleon_ gets away this time, they'll know now that our ships can find it, and that we are going to keep after them; they'll be forced to bargain, they'll have to make a deal. Deal - or die, their choice."

He stared at his Second-in-Command. "That's a big gamble to take, Number One, both with our ship and the hostages' lives. What if you're wrong and they stand and fight?"

Will held his eyes, steadily. "Then we fight. And if we have to, we'll go down fighting. The Rebels, and the Romulans, won't miss the point. As for the hostages, -" Here he hesitated, then looked at him, direct gaze burning painfully bright. "After nearly nine months captivity, what worse fate can they possibly suffer? I know I'd be willing to take my chances, if I was in their place." Slapping his hand down hard on the panel; in the gesture, he felt the other man's absolute determination to carry his point. "We may not ever get another shot like this, Captain! A chance to destroy the entire Rebel fleet, to end this conflict! I say we attack!"

Worf straightened, showing his teeth in a rare smile. The excitement of battle, the chance at a warrior's death, he could see, were heating the Klingon blood to a boil. "The Commander's right, Sir. We can do no less. We must honor this opportunity."

Geordi, who had been looking thoughtful, suddenly nodded. "I think we can do it," the Chief Engineering Officer said, softly. "We can take them, Captain. Besides, like the Commander said, we'll never get another chance like this one. Let's take advantage of it. Whatever the outcome, it's worth our best shot."

Deanna nodded her concurrence. "I believe Commander Riker's assessing the situation correctly. The elements of surprise and superior experience are on our side. This may be our best opportunity to force the hostages' return, or if not us, then whoever succeeds us."

Will turned from her to Data. "What do you say?"

Data was tilting his head. "Your plan is an extremely perilous one, and stands a very low probability of succeeding. However, I have observed that humans always operate at their maximum capabilities under those kinds of circumstances, and therefore, I do not believe that you will fail. And that, even if you do, your failure will lead to success ultimately, as you have estimated. And, though it is not logical, since there appears to be no better alternative at the moment, I would concur with your method of proceeding."

Will smiled at his colleague. "In other words, yes, Mr. Data?"

The android appeared to re-analyze his words. "I believe that is what I said."

He noticed Beverly was turned slightly away, her green eyes somewhat distant. "Is there something you wanted to say, Doctor?"

She looked up at him; the gaze hardened into determination. "Yes. Commander, your plan is - I think that your plan is reckless and foolhardy. I mean, why are we even seriously considering going out and attacking _thirteen_ ships at once? It's suicidal, we'd just be killing ourselves! I wonder - I was wondering, Commander, what your real reasons are for wanting to do this."

Deanna was shaking her head. "There's nothing to be gained in questioning Commander Riker's motivations. Whatever he does, he does with the good of the ship and the Federation always as his foremost concern."

"You're both right," Will said. "I do have my personal reasons, Doctor, for wanting to go forward with this, finishing this thing once and for all; the Captain is fully cognizant of them. But, personal reasons aside, as a tactical matter, I think my plan of attack is the best option we have. Does anyone have a better idea?" He looked around at the others. "If any of you don't trust me to lead you into this battle, now's the time to speak. But let's get going, do something, before the Rebel ships disappear!" Looked at him. "Captain?"

Will was right: No other plan would give them the same chance for success. And such a spectacular success! The chance to crush the Rebellion all at once, possibly even end the war, and offering a chance, however slight, to recover the hostages, too, if they were still alive.

On the other hand, if they failed ... He took a deep breath. "Let's go."

[* * *]

He was seated in his chair, calm, calmer than he had felt in a long time. The call had gone out to battle stations, everyone on the ship was in position. Their initial targets were selected and programmed in to the computers; secondary targets would be manually plotted as they changed positions. Their course was laid in, speed set. Will was coming down the ramp toward him. "On your command, Sir, we'll cloak the ship."

"Make it so." He stood and was walking toward the helmsman. "Be prepared to make speed and course corrections as needed, Mr. Meyer. Mr. Worf, as soon as we engage them, send out our coordinates to Star Fleet and tell them to send reinforcements. What does our time look like, Mr. Data?"

"We will arrive at our destination thirty-one seconds after you give the order, Sir."

_Arrive at our destination_. What their destination was they'd soon know; in thirty-one seconds, to be precise. He raised his finger: Will was standing next to him, looking on.

"Engage."

"Twenty-five seconds," Data called out.

He looked around the bridge: The room seemed to glow. A lightness of purpose, almost a euphoria, was filling his senses. Life or death seemed questions of little consequence at the moment. Neither did it matter what his life had or hadn't been. Beverly was right. And she was wrong. He had chosen to be alone, and now he might die alone, loving no one, mourned in no one's heart. But he wasn't bitter about it. This was the life he had chosen, and he had no regrets.

"Twenty seconds."

He was seating himself, Will sitting next to him. He noticed for the first time, that Will was wearing his wedding ring again, the gold band glinting softly under the lights. Was he so confident that he would be seeing his wife soon? Or, did he want to make sure to die with the symbol of his eternal love for her on his finger?

It was the feeling he had been fighting off earlier, the question Beverly had alluded to, of Will's duality of purpose, an officer dedicated to his duty, and a man pained deeply, haunted, by the loss of his beloved wife. Could his Second-in-Command be trusted to think and act clearly in the circumstances?

Yes. Even now, he trusted William Riker, as a trained and experienced Star Fleet officer, Second in Command of the Enterprise. He'd live and die by that trust.

"Fifteen seconds."

He looked up at Will. "This is going to be a hell of a dogfight, Number One."

Will nodded, jaw set, the bright blue eyes conveying their undaunted confidence and determination. "We've been in a few before," his Second-in-Command said.

He understood. At the base of it, this was a battle like others in which they had engaged - and yet something larger, some greater purpose, was controlling this thing now. Win or lose, they were seconds from finding it all out.

"Ten seconds," Data said.

Almost there. He stared at the viewscreen, at the ships that were waiting, unsuspecting and small, against the hulking background of the _Chameleon_.

"Captain," Worf called to him, suddenly. "Captain, we're being hailed."

He was on his feet instantly, along with Will turning to face Worf. "Hailed? Hailed by who?"

The Security Officer was checking his panels again, looked up. "By the _Chameleon_, Sir."

Will turned and stared at him; his own blood running to ice: Their element of surprise was gone, vanished like that. "Weapons status?"

"Five -"

"They appear to have deflecting mechanisms onboard that our sensors can not penetrate."

" - Four -"

He looked at the viewscreen. The ships he had looked at a moment ago as waiting victims, were now bristling with a shining malice, no longer lambs at the slaughter, but the slaughterers ready to kill.

" - Three -"

Wait, wait a minute: They were being hailed. Hailed! Somebody wanted to talk. Or was it a ruse to pinpoint their exact location? How had they been discovered?

" - Two -"

"Full stop," he ordered.

"Full stop, aye."

He looked from Deanna's face, black eyes large in her pale face, to Worf's ruggedly fierce visage, to Will's utterly open countenance, calm after the initial shock, and ready for anything. He resumed his seat, tugging his tunic sharply down; his Second in Command was sitting down next to him, in silence, turning to look at him, Deanna turning to look at him as well.

Well … If the other Captain wanted to talk - they'd talk.

"Shields up. Drop our cloak," he said, into the waiting silence.

"Weapons, Sir?" Will asked.

"Not unless they move from their positions. Open a channel, Mr. Worf," he said, leaning back into his chair, looking up at the viewscreen. The ships were arrayed in a semi-circle in front of him.

The scene changed with a flick: A woman dressed in a Federation uniform appeared on the screen. She was middle-aged, light-blonde-haired, blue-eyed; except for her iron-steady expression, the face might have been attractive - and was also familiar. It was Will's stiffening in his chair, and the collar insignia, that alerted him whom he might be looking at.

"This is Captain Jean-Luc Picard of the _Enterprise_," he said.

"Captain Janice Carter of Selasdana Outpost Nine," the woman replied, in a clear, even tone.

Confirming his belief: He was looking at Anna Rhaenn Riker - Will's wife.


	18. PART TWO, Ch 17 -- The Arrival

PART TWO

16. The Arrival

Restraining himself from looking to his right at Will, and keeping his tone neutral, Picard spoke to the woman on the screen. "Yes, Captain. What is your situation? What is the condition of the others with you?"

"The Captain of this ship is prepared to allow our release. In exchange, you will allow this ship, as well as the others, to leave unchallenged," she said. "I have agreed to this. We will transmit our coordinates at your signal."

_She _had agreed? "We welcome your release under any circumstances," he said. "If you will allow me to speak to the Captain of the ship, we can finalize the details of the agreement."

"He will not speak with you," the woman coolly replied. "I have already stated the terms of the agreement. There are no details to finalize."

Deanna leaned forward. "You see, we can not negotiate with anyone but the Captain -"

The woman turned her level gaze toward the Counselor. "There will be no negotiations. The Captain of this ship has given his word that he will release us to you, and I have given my word that you will not pursue these ships after we are released," she said. "We await your signal, _Enterprise_."

The screen blinked off.

"Captain, the _Chameleon_'s shields are dropping," Worf said. "They are signaling us."

So that was that; she was leaving them no alternative. The woman's command of the situation had certainly been impressive, but there was no time to think about that now. "My feeling is this is a genuine offer, Number One."

"Their shields are down," Will said. "I think we should take them at their word."

"Agreed. Dr. Crusher to the Transporter Room, and bring all available members of your staff," he said, rising from his chair and turning to Deanna. "Counselor Troi, you and the doctor and her staff will provide those people all the support they need to stabilize their conditions. Configure your debriefing teams and get to work as soon as they are physically able to cooperate with your efforts; Star Fleet will want that intelligence as quickly as we can develop it. Commander, I would like a word with you," he said, detaining his Second-in-Command as the two officers were heading for the door, Deanna continuing on her way. "Was that her?" he asked, quietly.

The blue eyes flared bright; a sign, the only sign, of the deep emotion he knew the other man must be feeling. "She's altered her appearance. But, yes, that was her."

He gave an acknowledging nod, watching for a moment, as his Second in Command was leaving the room. "Helmsman, lay in a course, out of those ship's firing range, no reason to test Rebel honor any more than we have to at the moment. Mr. Worf, prepare to drop our shields long enough to bring those people on board. Signal that we are ready to receive our people."

"We are receiving transport coordinates. No activity from the Rebel ships. Transporter signals four on their way. We have four on board."

He was nodding. "Shields up. Mr. Meyer, engage. You have the bridge, Mr. Data."

He started out of the room, letting go a long breath, relieved. At last! It was over. Their search was over.

[* * *]

Four figures had indeed materialized on the transporter pads. When he came into the room, Will had the woman in the lead position tightly engulfed in his arms. The other three companions, gaunt, bruised and battered, in tattered Federation uniforms, were looking vaguely around themselves, before turning their vacant, weary eyes to look at him. He stood there, contemplating his long-lost colleagues.

He recognized each of them, of course, having studied their profiles so often, sometimes in the middle of the nights he hadn't been able to sleep over the past months; Ros, the other woman, a tall, pretty, dark-haired Bajoran, only twenty-four years old. Chaves, a fair, handsome Spaniard, thirty-three, married two months before coming to Selasdana Outpost, his first posting. Neeley, he was married as well, with four young children. It seemed almost unreal to actually have them here, and face-to-face; yet here they were, against all odds, against all logic, against even hope, here they were. They had made it.

A knot was suddenly forming in his throat, as what had happened struck him. They were alive. Alive! And safe now, at last.

He was stepping forward. "I am Jean-Luc Picard, Captain of the Federation Star Ship _Enterprise_."

The tall Bajoran straightened, and saluted; he thought he saw an effort in the gesture. "Lt. Ros, Selasdana Station," she replied, flatly; he read fatigue and disbelief into the tone.

He returned her salute crisply. "Welcome aboard," he said, extending his hand to her. "And welcome - welcome home," he said, his voice floundering a little, on the last, simple phrase.

She was reaching forward to take his hand, and he clasped it warmly, tightly, in his. "Thank you, Captain," Ros murmured; at the contact, her dark eyes came alive, as if, through his touch, the situation was becoming more real to her. "Thank you. And thank you for saving us, Sir."

The knot still lodged in his throat, he was turning next to Chaves, saluting and extending his hand, swallowing hard before attempting to speak. "Welcome aboard."

Chaves was returning the salute, painfully, as Ros had, bowing slightly to him as they were shaking hands. "Chaves, Sir. Thank you, Sir. It's good to be back."

He nodded. "Good to have you back, Chaves." Turning last to Neely, saluting him, and extending his hand. "Welcome aboard, Neeley."

Neeley's grip was the firmest; the red-head was, incredibly, smiling. "Thank you, Sir. Captain, may I contact my wife and children, Sir?"

"Bridge to Captain." Data's voice, over the intercom.

"As soon as the Doctor releases you, Mr. Neeley, we will put all of you in contact with your people. This is Dr. Crusher, our Ship's Chief Medical Officer, and these are her staff. This is our Ship's Counselor, Deanna Troi." He gestured to the doctor who was standing just behind him, and the others, with their equipment at the ready, were now moving quickly onto the platform to start their work; he moved out of their way, walking over to the comm panels. "Yes, what is it, Mr. Data?"

"The Rebel ships are leaving, Sir."

"Track them as long as you can. Send their coordinates to all the ships in the area, and to Star Fleet Command, and send them all reports. Advise Star Fleet Command that the Selasdana hostages have been released and are now aboard the _Enterprise_." As he was speaking, Deanna, with one of the doctors, was carefully helping Ros off the transporter platform, the Ship's Counselor speaking reassuringly to the woman; the Bajoran was moving in a halting manner. Beverly and another doctor were attending to Chaves, who seemed equally infirm, and another doctor and nurse were assisting Neeley, preparing to move him off the platform. Over to the side, his back to the others, Will had not moved, arms still wrapped around the last member of the group, Janice Carter, or rather, Anna Rhaenn Riker disguised as Carter.

He walked over to the platform and was stepping onto it; the girl was pulling back from Will's arms, looking for all the world like the woman he had seen, dead, those months ago, Carter. She appeared to be in somewhat better condition than the other three, the lower half of her body distended, apparently pregnant, as Boaez had asserted. Her blue eyes were as steady as they had been on the viewscreen earlier, looking directly at him, the level gaze intriguing, and even somewhat invasive, as if she were looking _through_ him, as well as at him.

Will was turning, and hurriedly brushing his cheeks, a wide smile coming over his face, the first genuine smile he had seen in months on his friend's countenance. "Jean-Luc," Will said; the voice was filled with emotion. "Captain Jean-Luc Picard, I'd like you to meet someone. This is Anna Rhaenn Riker - my wife. Anna, this is Jean-Luc Picard, Captain of the _Enterprise_, and my friend."

The woman raised her hand in the traditional Vulcan greeting. "I am honored, Captain Jean-Luc Picard," she said. "May you live long and prosper."

He returned the greeting. "It is my honor to meet the daughter of Eric and T'Prianne Rhaenn, and the wife of my First Officer and friend," he replied. "We have been looking for you quite a long time."

"Jean-Luc," Will said, interrupting, with a laugh of delight. "Jean-Luc, we're going to have a baby. You see, Boaez was telling the truth, just as I believed." His Second in Command was speaking while looking at his wife, adoration in the other man's expression.

He looked at the woman again, bowing slightly. "I congratulate you both."

Her eyes didn't change, expression giving nothing away; in fact, the woman's eyes had not left his face once to look at her husband. He again had the unnerving feeling that she was looking clear through him, and the idea was rubbing oddly at him, chaffing almost, on his nerves. _Don't do that_, he wanted to say. Her gaze became less intense, as if her thoughts had turned elsewhere; he was relieved - and a little let down, he had to admit, and then surprised that she, a complete stranger to him until this moment, could inspire such strong and even contradictory feelings in him.

"Tomas Boaez is dead, Captain," she said, revealing what had distracted her attention; rather declaring it, more than asking.

He was nodding. "Yes, I'm very sorry. It happened during his debriefing at Space Station Nine, the Co - excuse me, your husband, was there when it happened." From the corner of his eye, he saw Beverly and Deanna re-entering the room; looking around himself, he realized that the others had all gone out of the Transporter room. "Number One," he said, when the doctor and counselor had stepped onto the platform, turning to them. "Will you introduce this lady to your friends?"

Will was touching the woman's back, looking with a smile of tender pleasure and utter happiness into her eyes a moment, before turning to the women. "Doctor Beverly Crusher, Counselor Deanna Troi, I'd like you to meet Anna Rhaenn - Riker, my wife Anna. I - We were married on Selasdana - It's a long story, I'll tell you about it later," Will ended, with a joyous laugh. "Anyway, please meet my wife, Anna Riker. And as you can see, we're expecting a baby very soon. This is Deanna Troi, a very good friend and the Ship's Counselor."

Deanna, looking from Will to the woman at the introduction, was extending her hand to Anna. "Mrs. Riker," she said, with a warm smile. "My best wishes. And welcome aboard. And home." The greeting was graceful and sincere, and she turned with equal sincerity to Will Riker. "Congratulations," she said, as she embraced her former lover; Will was laughing with delight, giving her a happy little squeeze. "Thanks, Dee," he murmured. "And thank you for all your support these last months, I would have been lost without you."

Beverly was looking closely at the woman's face, before frowning slightly, even as she was extending her hand. "Dr. Beverly Crusher. Excuse me for staring, but you look familiar. Have we met before?"

Will was shaking his head, raising his hand. "I told you it was a long story. This isn't what Anna looks like. She altered her appearance to look like Captain Janice Carter."

"Oh! I thought I had seen you before." Beverly gave her a tentative smile. "Welcome to the _Enterprise_, Mrs. - Riker, I'll have to get used to saying that," she said, halting slightly as she spoke the name. "Well, let's have a look at you." Raising the tricorder in her hand to examine the girl, turning her instrument in the direction of the woman's extended abdomen.

He realized that he had been avoiding looking at the woman's body; the roundness of her stomach was embarrassing, and even a little sickening to him. Surprising; he had never been repulsed by the sight of a pregnant woman before. Though physically undeniable, it hardly seemed possible that the woman he was looking at would bear a child, become a mother; her pregnancy seemed somehow incompatible with the rest of her, like an alien attachment grafted onto the body.

Deanna was reaching to grasp the girl's arm. "You're safe now, Mrs. Riker," she said, in a gentle voice. "You are among friends."

The doctor lowered her instrument. "Mother and baby are perfectly healthy. Let's get you down to the Sick Bay, Mrs. Riker, and examine you more closely."

"I am not in need of your services, Doctor," the woman said evenly, aiming her straightforward gaze first at Beverly and then at Deanna. "Nor yours, Counselor. I am quite well."

Will was looking at his wife as if she were the first and only woman in existence, touching her now as if she were the most fragile, beautiful bit of china. At his side, he sensed, more than saw, Deanna Troi flinch briefly at the sight, before regaining her composure; it occurred to him again to wonder whether he was going to lose his Ship's Counselor. Turning away, he was walking over to the edge of the platform.

"Let's do what the Doctor says," he heard Will saying to his wife, as if to persuade her. "I'll be there with you while she does her work. And you can be with your friends while they're being attended to. Wouldn't you like that?"

Stepping off the platform and looking back, he was surprised to see the woman standing behind him, Will at her side, Beverly and Deanna behind her, as if they had all followed him; he automatically was offering his hand up to her to help her down, just as her husband was stepping down and offering his hand as well. Anna was reaching with her own, taking her husband's hand and stepping down; he had dropped his immediately and stepped back, away from her, deferring to her husband. She was walking toward the exit, Will at her side, Deanna and Beverly behind them; he stepped in behind the others, following them to the door. It was sliding open.

Outside in the passageway were the three officers from Selasdana, Ros, Chaves, and Neeley, their attending physicians a step away. Beyond that group, he could see as he stepped out of the room, the corridors were packed; seemingly the entire population of his ship was here, stretching down both ends of the passageway.

Ros was immediately springing to attention. "Ten-_hut!_" she barked out, the three officers straightening to rigid attention and saluting - _their_ Captain, he realized, the honor for Anna Rhaenn Riker, the woman they knew as Captain Janice Carter. "Captain on the deck."

Will was looking surprised, at his wife, and then his face began to beam with obvious admiration, as she stepped away from his side and walked toward the other three officers, folding her hands behind her back and passing in slow review. It was clear that they had done this many times before: He could imagine for himself the captives performing this same ritual on the Rebel ship, perhaps even just before or after they were taken away for questioning. That little routine carried out in the face of their captors had to have goaded the Rebels no end, provoking even worse beatings and torture. Still, they had done it, under the command of the woman they knew as their Captain. And he saw, suddenly, in their leader, Anna Rhaenn Riker, something Will had guessed at and no doubt been right about; she _had_ been confrontational with the Rebels, but for reasons he could now more clearly understand, as he watched this ceremony unfolding. As a Vulcan, she had understood what needed to be done to show the Rebels what they, representative of Star Fleet and the Federation, were made of, prepared even to sacrifice all of their lives to a greater good, the good of the Federation. Having set this course for herself and the people she had been captured with, Anna Rhaenn Riker had not shirked from her self-imposed duty. If this was indeed the case, then Will was right; his young wife had shown remarkable courage. The three companions were torn and tattered, bruised, their leader nearly equally ragged. Yet all wore the shining dignity of their exemplary courage, rising them above and beyond what any smart, crisp uniforms or shiny medals could ever bestow. Watching this last homage to their leader now, relating it back to their time in captivity, was incredibly moving, and he saw more than a few of those in the silent crowd watching, raising their hands to wipe their eyes, cheeks.

The leader of the little troop seemed satisfied at last, and nodded. "As you were," she said, to her people. The three officers relaxed, and then began to applaud their leader. And all along the passageway, the applause was soon joined, until it was tumultuous, and there were shouts, and cheering, the walls ringing with the joyous noise. Solemn now, Will went over to his wife's side and together they began to walk down the corridor, a path opening for them through the cheering crowd, the three colleagues from Selasdana, attended by their doctors, falling in behind them; he followed, Deanna on one side, on the other, Beverly, and when he turned to look at her, she was smiling at him unreservedly, eyes shining with emotion; it was the first time since their argument that he felt completely at peace with her again.

The comm signalled. "Bridge to Captain."

Excusing himself from the ladies at his side, he made his way over to the comm panel. "What is it, Mr. Worf?"

"Urgent message from Admiral Schoenhutt in your Ready Room, Sir."

The Admiral's flag ship, the _Colossus_, had recently arrived in the Corridor.

He watched the little parade going on ahead without him, feeling a cold sinking in his stomach.

[* * *]

"_What?_" Beverly was leaning forward in her chair, surprise evident in the widened eyes; Deanna, beside her, had shown the same surprise for a moment, before her expression had settled into thoughtfulness, and she was looking off into the distance.

"Effective immediately, you will discontinue all examination and medical treatment of the hostages, beyond what is necessary for their immediate survival and comfort," he repeated. "Federation doctors are on their way now to care for them until they are well enough to leave the ship. No one will be allowed to speak to them; there will be no debriefings. There will be guards posted at the Sick Bay where they will be kept in isolation until -"

"Yes, but _why_, Jean-Luc?" Beverly was interrupting him, clearly startled by this turn of events. He couldn't answer that question; it was as big a mystery to him, as to her

"Those are our orders, directly from Star Fleet Command," he said. Straight from Schoenhutt's mouth, he could have added, and he had known better than to question or argue the decision with the Admiral. He leaned back in his chair. "You are not to take this personally," he said, looking at both of the women. "Star Fleet must have its reasons for doing this, but they're nothing to do with you."

"Nothing to do _with us?_" Beverly repeated, sounding as if she were beginning to work herself into a state. "Well, that's jolly! We're the ones who've been searching like crazy for those people all these months, we're the ones who saved them, at the risk of our ship and all of our lives. Instead of a 'Congratulations, well done,' we get shoved aside, without even the courtesy of an explanation! Oh, I don't believe this," she said, sinking back into her chair, face pale with anger.

Deanna, who had been silent, looked at him, her black eyes direct. "What do you suppose they're trying to hide, Captain?"

It was the same thing he had wondered. "We may never know."


	19. PT TWO, Ch 18 -- The Debriefing

17. The Debriefing

Will watched Beverly and Deanna leaving Sick Bay after the summons from the Captain, before turning back to his wife; Anna was programming one of the Doctor's instruments, preparing it for the process of altering her appearance; she'd explained the transformation process earlier, but he hadn't followed much of the technical explanation after a certain point, and neither had Beverly Crusher. "Well, you got me," Beverly said, shaking her head with a sigh. "I'd never heard of DNA extraction or infusion techniques used like this."

"It was a procedure developed by my parents," Anna said, as she looked over the instruments in Sick Bay. "Their tools were specialized for this task. If you will allow me, I can recalibrate what you have here to do the work necessary."

Beverly had watched Anna work for a while, then shook her head again. "I think I'll go and see if I can be useful somewhere else," she said, walking toward the other Selasdanans, who were in the treatment area of Sick Bay, being attended to by the other doctors; though preliminary examinations had shown the captives' physical well-being was relatively good, it was clear from their condition that they had been brutally treated all the way up to the end of their captivity. They were responding well to the doctors' care, however, and Dr. Crusher had said that she expected them all to recover fully from their injuries. "Your wife, Will, is absolutely healthy, and so is the baby. As far as the baby's birth, you don't have too much longer to wait. Of course, babies keep their own arrival schedules, even Vulcan babies."

He watched Anna working in silence for some minutes, after the two women were called out of the room. All the things he had once planned to say to her didn't seem right somehow now that she was actually here, and the things that now occurred to him to say brought back painful memories. _I missed you_, seemed more ironic than heartfelt. What had he planned to say to her? _I don't expect you to ever forgive me, and I know I can't ever make it up to you, but - _

"I am so sorry, Anna," he finally blurted out, reaching to take her hands. She did not resist his gesture, her hands pliant within his own. "I'm sorry for all you went through after I left, more sorry than I can ever say."

Her level gaze and calm expression didn't change. "Sympathy for the suffering of others is a natural tendency in your species. Regret, however, is an illogical emotion. Regret often serves no purpose other than to exacerbate guilt, another illogical emotion."

"I _do_ feel guilty, and rightly so," he said, angrily shaking his head; furious at himself all over again for what he had done. "I know that what happened to you after I left, happened because of me, because I left you there, alone, on Selasdana. I abandoned you, when I should have stayed with you, or brought you back to the ship with me. It wasn't right to leave you behind, and I wasn't right to do it!"

Her eyebrows arched a little; even in her present human guise, the facial gesture was unmistakably Vulcan. "You could not have stayed with me on Selasdana, William. Your ship called for you, therefore, it was your duty as a Star Fleet officer to return to your ship."

"I had other duties, as a husband," he said, fiercely, gripping her hands more firmly in his; there was no corresponding reaction from her own. "I had a moral duty, an obligation, to look out for you, as your husband."

"Your first moral duty and obligation was and is to protect the Federation. That is what you are sworn to do as a Star Fleet officer, and as long as you are a Star Fleet officer, you have no greater responsibility," she said. "You did as you were meant to do. Had you done otherwise, you would not have been the man I married."

He was staring at her; this was an entirely new perspective she had opened up to him. Of course, he was not a Vulcan, and he could not think as a Vulcan did. Had he done so, perhaps he would have seen that as a Vulcan, she expected, accepted, and even appreciated, that he had done his duty, though that duty had ultimately brought harm to her; in doing so, he had been following the Vulcan tradition implicit in their greatest maxim: The needs of the many outweighed the needs of the few. This went to the core of something he had been considering, if she were ever to return to him, alive. _Your moral duty and obligation is to protect the Federation. As long as you are a Star Fleet officer_ -

"I've thought about resigning my commission," he admitted, now, to her. "I don't want anything in my life to be more important than you, Anna, nothing to take me from your side. Nothing should come between us or keep us apart, including my career."

"Your career has nothing to do with whether we are apart or together, William. It is illogical to think so. Your decision to resign is yours alone, however; surely you have fully weighed the consequences of leaving your ship, and Star Fleet, and the Federation, during a time of war, and decided that this is the correct course of action to take."

"I _have_ thought about all that, Anna. There's nothing special about me that Star Fleet can't replace; I'm just one officer in a legion of officers. On the other hand, I only have one wife, a woman that I love with all my being, all my heart and soul, and that the entire Federation could never replace if she were lost to me. No. Nothing is or can be more important to me than dedicating my life to my wife and child," he said, taking her shoulders and looking into her eyes. "Don't you see that? If I fail you as a husband, if I fail my child as a father, as your protector and provider, then nothing else I do in my life ever, means anything. The whole purpose of my life resides in you, now, in you and in our unborn child."

"Even in a legion, every officer, if he is a good officer, is vital to his mission, just as you are vital to the _Enterprise_, William. It is illogical to reason otherwise. As for the child, you would someday have to explain your decision to your son -"

"_Son?_" he burst out, a surge of surprised pleasure and happiness running through him at the knowledge she had unexpectedly shared. "A son, Anna? Our child will be a boy?"

"This is the Captain. Commander Riker to my Ready Room immediately."

Anna was looking steadily at him. "William: You are free to do as you choose, there is no need in my saying so. However, since you have told me in advance of your decision, it is clear that you wish to know my opinion before you carry it out. If you feel it is necessary to protect me, if you are concerned about my safety, I could be no more safe anywhere than on this ship, and perhaps safer here than in most other places. In carrying out your plan of action, therefore, you would not serve the purpose you seek to fulfill."

"Captain Picard to Commander Riker."

He looked at her a long moment, before touching his comm pad. "Riker here, Captain. On my way."

Anna picked up the instrument she had been working on and was calibrating it, looking at the metrics on the instrument panel next to the bed. "You're right, Anna," he said, at last. "We don't have to make those kind of decisions this minute."

[* * *]

He was entering the Ready Room, just as the Captain was rising from his seat behind the desk, apparently in a hurry to leave, walking quickly around the desk and heading for the door. "Join me, Commander. We are going to the Transporter Room to greet a visitor."

"A visitor?" he asked, puzzled. Who would the Captain allow to visit the ship now, at a time like this? Unless it was an official visit. "Someone from Star Fleet?"

The Captain gave him a glance, but did not answer. He thought for another moment, then it came on him like a blinding light. "Not Admiral Schoenhutt?"

A deep sigh came from the man at his side, the Captain turning to look straight at him. "He's taking custody of the hostages."

"He's what - taking -? Why?"

"I don't know." Pausing, the expression changing on his face. "I know you don't care for Richard, but remember, Will: Remember, as I did not, what happens when you don't control your temper."

The somber eyes left his face, and they walked on, quickly and in silence, into the Transporter Room; the signal was just coming in. The Captain nodded to the Transporter Chief. "Energize."

Figures began to materialize on the platform, and a moment later, Admiral Schoenhutt was in the room, along with several others, some of whom were doctors, others whom he assumed were Star Fleet intelligence officers, Michaels among them, the man who had questioned Boaez. The Captain was saluting their visitor. "Admiral Schoenhutt," Jean-Luc said, crisply. "Welcome aboard the _Enterprise."_

Schoenhutt was returning the salute, before stepping off the platform, coming to a halt in front of the Captain and himself, looking narrowly at his subordinate. "Am I safe to assume you have carried out my orders regarding the captives, Picard, or would that have been asking too much?"

Captain Picard was nodding. "Yes, Admiral. The hostages are being held in isolation in the Sick Bay awaiting transfer to your custody."

"The hostages have only just arrived onboard -" He was looking at the Admiral, before recollecting himself, trying immediately to backtrack. "Excuse the interruption, Sir."

The Admiral was turning to stare at him. "I don't believe I was asking you anything, Commander?" Speaking in a sarcastic tone that immediately raised his hackles; saying nothing, however, heeding the Captain's warning to him to control his temper.

"Commander William Riker, my Executive Officer, Admiral," the Captain was saying. "Mr. Riker knew nothing about your orders until this moment, and they come as a surprise to him."

Schoenhutt was giving the Captain a cold, disdainful look. "Only you would think surprise conveys the right to question a superior officer's orders, Picard," the Admiral replied, in a cutting tone. "It is hardly surprising your people would believe likewise. I can imagine the state of discipline, or should I say, non-discipline, that exists on this ship."

"Do I have your permission to speak, Admiral?" he asked.

Schoenhutt gave a small, dry laugh. "Certainly, Commander. I expect no less insolence from Picard's officers than from himself."

"Thank you, Sir. Admiral, may I ask why you're taking custody of those people?"

"For the purpose of questioning them ourselves. You needn't worry, Commander," Schoenhutt added, in a tone again heavy with sarcasm. "These people are experts in their field. They'll do an excellent job debriefing the hostages."

"Yes, Sir," he said, glancing at Michaels. "Tomas Boaez can testify to your experts' excellent work."

The Admiral's eyes widened, then narrowed, the face going pallid, all of the loose flesh quivering, as the man stared at him. "You take quite an interest in proceedings that don't fall under your jurisdiction, Riker." And then, suddenly, frighteningly, Schoenhutt was looking at him with interest, the cold eyes pin-pointed on his own. "Wait: Is this person the one you told me about, Picard? Secretly married to one of the people who were held captive, though I'm sure I misunderstood to whom?"

Jean-Luc was silencing him with a look; agreeable to him, since he no longer trusted his tongue to be civil. "Commander Riker was married to Anna Rhaenn on Selasdana just before the hostages were taken captive, Sir," the Captain was saying. "You can understand his keen interest -"

"I understand that you have not properly instructed the officers aboard your ship on the requirements of duty and discipline," Schoenhutt snapped, before turning to look at him again. "So? You claim to be married to Anna Rhaenn? Dear me, what a choice she made, assuming it's true." Schoenhutt looked him up and down, shaking his head, an icy smile cutting into his face. "Ah, Commander, if I were you, I would hope that the outcome is indeed different than for Boaez, that is, since it is Anna Rhaenn whom I intend to take and debrief myself."

_Anna?_ "Wait a minute, you can't do that!" Shock immobilized him for the moment it took the Captain to step in front of him. "You can't take her into custody! She's a civilian, she isn't Star Fleet!"

Jean-Luc was placing a hand on his arm, before turning back to the Admiral. "Admiral, by what right do you detain someone who is not under the direct control or authority of Star Fleet?"

"Your own report gives me the authority, Picard," Schoenhutt coolly replied. The Admiral had signaled the men behind him as he was speaking, and they were stepping down off the platform; distracted, he sensed, too late, that he was being surrounded. "Anna Rhaenn took command and was fully in charge of those people when they were on board the Rebel ship, she was acting as their Captain," Schoenhutt replied. "Naturally, her information would be most invaluable."

"I must very strongly protest! Anna Rhaenn Riker is a Federation free citizen, Admiral," the Captain said. "You cannot violate her rights!"

The Admiral made a small, dismissive gesture. "All those legal niceties can and will be thoroughly investigated at some future point in time. If I am wrong, and it turns out I did not have the authority to question her, I will of course apologize, but for now I must go on what information I have, and question all of the hostages to the fullest extent possible. I must extract all I can from Anna Rhaenn Riker." Smiling baldly, eyes gleaming, at the Captain.

"You bastard -" He was making a sudden lunge, but the men behind him were grabbing him, pinning his arms behind his back, and he was struggling to get free. "Listen to me, Schoenhutt, you are not going anywhere near my wife!"

Schoenhutt was gesturing to someone behind him. "This man is out of control. Doctor, see if you can help him calm down."

The administrator came out of nowhere, and by the time he felt it, and turned to look at the doctor who had shot him full of something, it was too late … he was already out …

[* * *]

… He could hear the muffled sound of screaming, from far away …

_"Nooo … Nooo …Stop it …Stop …Noooooo!"_

… It was his wife … she was screaming …

_Anna_ … He wanted to call her name, but he couldn't … _Anna _…

[* * *]

_"Nooooooo …noooo …"_

"Anna," he heard himself murmur. "Anna, Anna …"

A rustling sound, like someone coming near, made him want to open his eyes …

… Footsteps, receding away, and then a voice:

"He seems to be awakening, Doctor."

"Stop it! … Noooooo … nooooo … _noooo_!"

… Screaming, somewhere nearby, his wife was _screaming in pain -_

"Anna!" he gasped, sitting straight up - the sudden movement made him lightheaded, and he raised a hand to his head, leaning back on the other, looking around, disoriented, his surroundings unfamiliar.

_Where was he?_ In a bed, raised off the floor. Looking around the room; Beverly was sitting at a desk nearby. She had turned to look at him, and was rising from her chair, walking toward him, touching her comm pad. "Captain, the Commander is awake now." He looked around again, trying to figure out were he was. It came to him: One of the operating nodes of the Sick Bay.

He wanted to throw off the light blanket laying on him, but when he tried to move, found the slight exertion overwhelming, his heart beating hard, breathing in pants. He looked at Beverly, wordlessly. Her calm expression helped to soothe him a little.

"It's all right, Will," she said, placing her hand on his shoulder. "You've been in a very deep sleep a long time, your body needs time to adapt. Here, this should help."

She reached for an administrator and shot something into him. Immediately, his mind began to clear, his body feeling as though it belonged to him again. He rubbed his face absently for a moment. "Asleep? How long?"

"Nearly three full cycles."

He turned and stared at Beverly. _Three full cycles?_ Had he been ill? Had she operated on him? He was trying to remember … _Anna, it had something to do with _-

It suddenly came back to him, the memories flooding in, Schoenhutt, the Captain, their confrontation. He threw the blanket back, and started to get out of the bed, but Beverly lay her hand on his arm. "Hold on, hold on. You've been laying in that bed for a while, if you try to get right up, you'll fall on your face -"

Sensing that what she said was true, desperation flooded in at his weakened state. "Where's Anna?" he asked. "I thought I heard her in my sleep. She seemed to be in distress."

Beverly gestured toward the partition closing off the Operating Node from the rest of Sick Bay. "Over there on that side, with the others and Admiral Schoenhutt." She shrugged and shook her head. "Jean-Luc and I went to the Admiral last night - he's staying in the VIP quarters - and we asked him how much longer this debriefing was going to take. I was concerned about you, I told him I didn't feel it was safe to keep you asleep much longer. He gave me permission to let you wake up, he told us the debriefing was over. We don't know what the delay is, Will. We thought they were finished, but now -"

Her eyes took on a strange look and she half-turned toward the dividing wall. The outside door to the room was sliding open, and Jean-Luc was coming in, walking toward him -

A piercing scream, muffled through the partition, filtered into the room. He recognized his wife's voice, screaming, "Noooo-ohhh, no, no, no, _noooo!"_

"Anna!" He struggled to his feet, feeling weak as a newborn, and had to lean against the bed. "Anna," he gasped, reaching his hand out, almost falling to his knees when he tried to take a step, his legs weak and wobbling.

The Captain, who had stopped at the sound of the screaming, now came toward him, reaching out and grasping his arm, helping him to his feet. "What's wrong with him, Doctor?"

Beverly was shaking her head. "He's debilitated from sleeping so deeply; they gave him too strong of a paralyzing agent, if you ask me." Her eyes and tone of voice conveying what she thought of that particular doctor. "He'll be all right soon, he just needs to adjust to moving around again."

"Anna," he said, looking around at his friend. "Jean-Luc … we have to save Anna."

"Save her?" The Captain was shaking his head. "They have a force field all around the Sick Bay, even if we wanted to, no one can get in there."

"No - no - _noooo!"_

The bloodcurdling scream went right through him; forcing his legs to respond, he lurched forward, toward the partition. Jean-Luc caught him on one side, Beverly on his other side, and he leaned against them a moment, before trying again to reach the door.

"I tell you, it's no use, Will," the Captain was saying. "You won't be able to go in, no one can get inside there."

_"Nooo,"_ came a long, sobbing cry from the other side of the wall. _"Noooooh. No more, no more, no more!"_

"Anna!" he cried out, struggling to get away from his friends, or trying to; Jean-Luc was holding him back, restraining him as well as supporting him. "Let me go, I need to go to her! He's killing her, Jean-Luc, don't you see? Can't you hear her? He's killing her, liked they killed Boaez!"

Jean-Luc stared at him a moment, then looked over at the Doctor. "How long has that been going on?"

"Since this morning, off and on. This is the third time it's happened. It goes for a while, then it stops. -"

_"NOOOOOOO!"_

"My God!" he cried out, all of his flesh tingling at the piercing scream. With a burst of energy, he struggled to free himself from the Captain's hold, lunging this way and that, trying to get away. "Let me go, for Christ's sake, let me go! Anna, Anna!"

"Control yourself, Commander!" The Captain was hanging on to him, barely, grunting the words out with an effort. "Beverly, see if you can find out what's going on in there!"

The Doctor walked quickly over to the comm panels, and signaled. "Doctor Beverly Crusher to Sick Bay."

Silence. Beverly was trying again. "Crusher to Sick Bay."

A long, low moaning sound, nearly indistinguishable at first, muffled through the partition, crescendoing up and up, until the sound of sobbing could clearly be heard, peaking at last into a long, sustained scream: _"Stop, please/ Please, please, no more. Noooooo-OOOOHHHH!"_

Beverly turned to look at him, and at the Captain, before signaling again. "This is Doctor Crusher. Please respond, Sick Bay - Mrs. Riker appears to be in a great deal of distress. Is she all right?"

Wresting himself away from the Captain's hold, he threw himself at the door, banging at it, tearing at the metal with his fingers. "Anna! Anna! Open this door, Schoenhutt, you bastard, you son-of-a-bitch coward! Open this door! Anna! Anna!"


	20. PT TWO, Ch 19 -- The Birth

19. The Birth

The door was sliding openly suddenly; in his weakened state, Will nearly fell - into Deanna's arms who was coming out of the room, Jean-Luc catching him from the other side; the door was sliding closed behind her before he could react. "Will," Deanna was saying, laying her hands on his forearms. "Will, she's all right. Your wife is helping the others. Be patient; it's almost over." She was turning to Beverly Crusher. "They could use your help in there, Doctor; their hands are full."

"What's going on in there, Deanna?" he asked, grabbing Deanna's arms. "Why is Anna screaming?"

"She was helping the others, but it's over now - Are you all right, Will?"

He had begun to feel light-headed again, reaching out to support himself against the wall. Beverly was coming over, watching him, an evaluating look sweeping him up and down. "He was weakened by that long, deep sleep. Sit down," she said to him, and before he could argue, she raised her hand. "Listen to me: You need to get your strength back before you go barging in there, you won't do anyone any good in this condition. Sit down and wait. You have Deanna's word that your wife is all right."

Deanna, eyes bright with concern for him, was nodding. "Please, Will. I promise you your wife is fine. Sit down, and I'll tell you what happened."

He looked into Deanna's eyes and, seeing a reassuring look there, decided going along with their advice was the wisest course at the moment; in truth, he was feeling as if his legs wouldn't quite sustain him yet. Deanna's assurance that Anna was well settled the matter. "All right," he reluctantly agreed, at last.

Beverly was nodding, picking up her tricorder and administrator, and turning towards the door, watching as he walked over to a chair and sat down, settled in, before going to the door and into the other room. He watched her, then turned to Deanna.

"Tell me, Dee," he said, grasping her arm, and pulling her down into the chair next to his; the Captain was looking around, pulling another chair close and sitting down. "What's going on in there?"

"I was informed the debriefing was over, Counselor," the Captain said.

She nodded. "Yes, that part of it was over." Deanna looked at him. "Will, your wife had taken control of the other's minds when they were taken hostage; she made them believe that she was Captain Carter."

He glanced over at the Captain. It had been just as the other man had suspected.

"Your wife suggested the others into not revealing any information to their captors if they were questioned, and that, if they were beaten, they would not remember it." Deanna shook her head. "All this time, all those beatings … Their bodies were telling them one thing, their minds another; the cognitive dissonance was too great. Had Anna Rhaenn merely released their minds from that suggestion, the damage would have been terrible; they would have been permanently scarred, mentally and emotionally. The debriefings were completed, your wife then mind-melded with them, to relive what happened and give them back their full memories; she was equipped to open up their pain and share it with them, and by taking the brunt of the physical and emotional experience upon herself, lessening the impact on them to a degree that was endurable for them."

"That was the screaming," he said, understanding now what he had heard and why.

"Yes, that was the screaming. She was venting _their_ pain, which had become hers. It was terrible to watch, terrible to listen to; I can imagine what you were going through out here. But the doctors were monitoring her the entire time, and they assured us that she was well within her limits of tolerance. Her strength, mental and physical, is incredible. I could not have done what she did," Deanna said, bluntly, in an admiring tone.

"Why did they need Doctor Crusher just now?" Jean-Luc was asking. "I counted three doctors when they boarded."

"Anna took most of the physical burden of re-living their experiences onto herself, but it was still debilitating for them," Deanna replied. "They feel drained, and very tired. Relieved, though, at seeing things as they really are, after all these months. Anna was the only one who didn't need medical attention afterwards; she was sitting quietly when I left the room. But the Admiral wanted her examined, so he sent me out for Dr. Crusher; he was extremely considerate of Anna Rhaenn the entire time. She's all right, Will." Deanna was leaning forward, touching his hand, covering it with her own. "She's very strong and very brave."

"Did she ask for me?"

Deanna paused, her dark eyes considering. "She was concentrated on what she was doing, - she hardly spoke at all. In fact, she didn't speak, except to the Admiral."

A chill was traveling up his spine. Schoenhutt. What had happened with Schoenhutt? "I want to see her."

"You will, very soon, I would imagine. The Admiral was preparing to leave with the others, as soon as the doctors said they were in a condition to go. He seemed to be in a hurry to leave -"

The door was sliding open, and Schoenhutt was walking into the room. The Captain was standing up, and walking over to him. "We're leaving, Picard; the others are already waiting for me in the Transporter Room. We would have wanted Anna Rhaenn to go with us, but the girl prefers to stay with you, so she tells me, and we have gotten all we need from her for the time being. She confirms that she is indeed married to your Commander here." Schoenhutt was looking at him, a little less disparagingly, if no less coldly. "Commander, I would have had you in leg-irons for your earlier conduct, had it not been for your wife's intercession. Mrs. Riker argued your case for you effectively; a word from a woman so courageous deserves special consideration, even when offered on behalf of those who aren't deserving of any favor."

He was standing up; sturdier now, he could feel, his legs not as uncertain. Anger had been surging through him at the Admiral's words - Remembering suddenly that Deanna said Schoenhutt had been considerate toward his wife, he shut his anger down, and instead stood there, silently, taking the cutting remarks in silence.

"Let me walk you out, Admiral," Picard was saying, turning toward the door.

"Quickly, then; I must get back to work. This war isn't over, you know, Picard. The Rebels haven't surrendered. Oh, and before I forget: You are not to question the girl. She has been completely debriefed as to what happened on Selasdana, and there is no further need to discuss it, certainly not with any of you." Schoenhutt was turning toward him again. "I very highly doubt that you have the capacity to realize who Anna Rhaenn is, Commander, but let's hope you can at least appreciate your incredible fortune in her acceptance of you as a husband, and allowing you to father her child. One can only hope you'll ever live up to either honor."

Seething at the words, he was about to reply - but before he could respond, he heard the comm signal. "Beverly Crusher to Will Riker: Will, would you come in here, please?"

"With your permission, Admiral." He saluted the Admiral, who saluted him back, turned and walked quickly as his legs would take him toward the door to Sick Bay, entering the room. Beverly was standing by one of the treatment chairs, the chair turned away from him; the room was otherwise empty. The Doctor turned when she heard him, and was smiling, stepping aside, as he came closer.

Anna was seated in the chair, in a loose medical robe: She looked just as he remembered her! She had changed her appearance, exactly to how she looked the night he had met, and fell in love, and married her. Her dark hair long around her shoulders, her eyes more beautiful even than he remembered, calmly regarding him.

"Anna -" he said, and then stopped.

She had shifted slightly, and by her side, he saw a bundling blanket, and inside the blanket, a baby, very small and red - a newborn! He looked at her in growing surprise.

"Say hello to your son," he heard Beverly saying, from the other side of the chair, as he stared at the child. "I told you babies have their own schedules, and this child was in a particular hurry to arrive. Congratulations, Will."


End file.
